


love, actually

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (By Cakes I Mean Thighs), Best Boyfriends 2k19, Carnivale Is The Dream of Two Idiots and A Thousand Game Shows, Coming Untouched, Everything's Fluffy And The Arctic Doesn't Matter, Fake Dating, Found Family Tropes Ahoy!, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Getting The Whole Damn Family Together, Hot Massages From Hot Tall Boys, Hurt/Comfort, James And Francis Become Two Pine Trees, M/M, Many Many Benefits, Semi-Clothed Sex, THICK CAKES, The Christmas Vacation AU Of Our Dreams, Vague Academic Handwaving, When Sports Massage Gets Sexy, academic shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21922855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: With three weeks to go until Christmas, James asks his fellow professor Francis for an unusual favor.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 52
Kudos: 168





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ALL RIGHT, first of all, I owe a Tuunbaq-sized debt to **MasterOfAllImagination** for not only beta-ing this monster fic _multiple times_ , but for bribing, editing, creative-directing, and cajoling my innermost writing goblin to just FINISH THIS ALREADY BECAUSE CHRISTMAS IS IN TWO DAYS. You are a rock star and a scholar, and you absolutely dragged my ass over the finish line. This fic would not be half as good without your hard work! <3
> 
> Additional shoutouts to **Priestly** , **Kami** , **MellieJellie** , and **brostoevsky** for encouraging me through the first draft, which took -- I kid you not -- over a year.
> 
> Fic is done and will be updating all this week.

“Bleeding _Christ,_ ” hissed Francis. The second he flung open the door to the hallway and found James Fitzjames standing on the other side, with a bow-topped Pyrex dish in one hand and a guilt-tinged smile slapped across his face, it put him in a sour mood. “Why the hell are you here so early? Going to rail at me about ancient Greece one last time before beginning exams?”

Fitzjames’s smile dimmed, but did not fully disappear as he lowered his hand. “May I come in?”

“Fine.” Francis turned around and retreated back into his office, leaving the door open. “What do you want?”

Of course the man could not just come out with whatever it was he had to say. Like being in a departmental meeting that never bloody ended. Between Franklin’s teeth-grinding insistence on staying a _neutral arbiter_ and Fitzjames’s tendency to ask hideous, ten-part questions that weren’t even questions at all, it was a wonder he and James hadn’t murdered each other in the several years since James began teaching at the university.

Looking nervous, Fitzjames dithered by the first bookshelf, tilting his head to read a couple of titles and then glancing around the rest of the room in obvious dismay. Every flat surface was covered in stacks of old exams, books, knickknacks, or assorted junk. Francis couldn’t tell where this term’s work began and where the archives ended. After a couple of years, he had lost proper track of the piles.

“Hm. I should like to sit first, if that’s all right.”

Reaching out one foot to push two thick stacks of papers off the nearest hard-backed chair and into the floor, Francis rounded his desk, and took a seat in his chair. “There. Cleared you a spot.”

“Right.” Fitzjames cleared his throat and sat down, looking for all the world like a frightened sophomore about to confess he had plagiarized his latest essay. Red-gloved hands tightened around the glass dish before straightening his posture. “Er. Well, to come to the point, I shall start by saying that this would be a rather large favor. And you are under no undue pressure to accept, if you—if the idea does not appeal to you personally, in some way.”

Francis raised an eyebrow, suspiciously intrigued. “If you’re trying to get me to proctor your last few exams, then you can bloody well forget it.”

“Oh, no,” said Fitzjames, with a wisp of his usual rakish confidence. “Exams are all settled. They write essays for me. As I said, this is of a, ah, personal nature.”

A brief silence fell across the room.

“I’m sure you don’t keep close track of what I do for the holidays, but my friends and I have something of a tradition. Every year after term ends, we take partners and friends, travel somewhere a bit chilly, and spend a couple of weeks doing absolutely bloody nothing by the fire.” James’s hesitant expression turned soft, slightly amused. “Through New Year’s, anyway.”

“Doesn’t sound completely horrible.” 

Francis still did not understand why the man was telling him all of this. Was he going to brag about this latest vacation spot before launching into his request for a favor? Tell him about all the stupid, famous people who were going to be there, including his idiot catalog model boyfriend?

“Anyway,” and here, Fitzjames swallowed hard, “Paul and I broke up, so he’s not coming along with me this year.”

Now _that_ was interesting. Weren’t they supposed to get married or something?

“Broke up?”

“Yeah.” The younger man shrugged, mouth twisting in a glum way. “Few weeks ago.”

“Why?” asked Francis, before he could stop himself.

The glum lines on Fitzjames’s forehead only deepened. “It—well. Bit awkward to talk about. Honestly don’t know why he—after everything that happened, how out of spirits everyone got after Dr. Franklin passed—well, Paul and I kept having these rather vicious fights.” He cleared his throat. “Thought I’d had _a thing_ with him and refused to own up to it.”

“A thing with who?”

Fitzjames pulled a face. “John Franklin.”

Francis couldn’t help it: he began to laugh, hard. “You’re bloody joking.”

“Don’t.”

“No, no, no, hang on. Your boyfriend, the successful male model—who by all accounts was not blind, tone-deaf, or addled in any way—thought _you_ had _a thing_ with Doctor John Franklin. Because you were sad that he—about the accident?”

A shadow had darkened the other man’s face. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“From John’s side? Abso-bloody-lutely! Never met a man so obsessed with women’s body hair in all my life.” Francis was still cackling. “I mean, he wouldn’t have looked twice at working next to George Clooney, for Christ’s sake. Or Captain-fucking-America. Let alone your weird skinny frame.”

A wide, shocked grin split Fitzjames’s face. His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. _“Captain-fucking-America?”_

“Whatever.” Francis waved a hand through the air. “I mean, Franklin wouldn’t have—not even curious about men, far as I could tell. Not that we discussed it.”

“Unfortunate hair kink knowledge notwithstanding.”

“Bloody fucking nightmare fuel, more like.” Francis winced at the memory. “Just be thankful he spared you the stories.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind,” answered Fitzjames. His good cheer seemed to be multiplying by leaps and bounds. “Anyway. Paul’s not coming with me. And I desperately don’t want to go alone, because it’s all couples and they’d suffocate me with misplaced pity. Do you, by any chance, have plans for the holiday?”

Francis’s wild cackle had long since faded into a soft chortle, but with this invitation, any remaining laughter died a sudden and ignoble death in the air. “Do I—?”

“I mean, I’m certain you’ve got family to look in on, and all that,” Fitzjames rushed to say. “Blanky probably spends a good couple of hours blowing up the deep fryer on the day. Else you’re with your—with Sophia? Since—”

For once in his life, Francis took pity on the man. James had picked up that damned dish in both hands again. Why on earth was he fiddling with it so much? “You really don’t have to keep speculating.”

“Oh, thank god,” sighed James. “I really don’t mean to be rude, simply—well. We’re half-decent friends by now, given everything that’s happened. And you won’t fawn over stupid job titles or get in a snit if Bridgens burns the apple pies. You’ll enjoy reading by the fire probably more than anyone. Walking around outside. Suppose all I’m really saying is that you’d be good company, and if you wanted to get away from this place for a couple of weeks, I’d be more than glad to host you.”

 _You think we’re friends?_ Francis almost blurted out. He bit his tongue just in time. Perhaps Fitzjames was right. Things _had_ been less fraught between them since Franklin died. James had even taken over all the department chair duties when Francis had first gone off to rehab. He supposed, when you looked at it from a distance, they were friends. Or had grown friendly, at any rate. They’d stopped getting into shouting matches and throwing right hooks at each other in staff meetings. Sometimes they even ate lunch or dinner together in the nearby cafeteria. Or graded papers at the table in the lounge without incident. Would’ve been unheard of when Fitzjames went up for tenure a couple of years back. Maybe it wasn’t so silly now. 

At this stage, Francis wasn’t sure he could scorn a new friendship. Didn’t have that many to begin with, and these days, it wasn’t as if he were drowning in anyone’s goodwill.

“Well, I don’t know,” sighed Francis as he sat back in his chair. “If Captain America’s not coming, you can count me right the hell out.”

James arched an eyebrow. “Very funny. If his presence is that significant a barrier to your enjoyment, I can promise you one DVD.”

“Three,” countered Francis, though he didn’t think he could even name that many Captain America films. “Just—email me the details, then. I’ll give them a look over once I’ve got all these idiot papers graded.”

“Course. And you really don’t have to decide right now, if you’re not comfortable. I’ll even pay your way, as well, if that’s a concern. It’s—anyway, whatever you decide, do let me know by Friday. That’s all I ask.” 

With an abashed look, Fitzjames set the Pyrex dish onto the nearest stack of papers. It was at this point that Francis realized what it contained: giant fluffy cookies filled with enormous chocolate chips of all kinds, with some sort of caramel or glaze on top to boot. 

Damn the man. 

For all his many flaws, James did know how to bake an excellent dessert. One year, Edward had gained something like twenty pounds over the course of a single term’s bi-monthly faculty meetings from the chocolate cheesecakes alone. 

But how Fitzjames knew the cookies were Francis’s favourite was impossible to say.

“Two DVDs.” Francis plucked the shiny plastic bow from the top of the dish and stuck it to his shabby briefcase after a half-second of thought. “And. Er. Where are we—where’s this holiday, again? Did you mention it?”

“Oh. Er.” James’s voice became high and rather small. “Canada?”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” said Francis in alarm. He’d assumed a long drive at the most. Two hours, perhaps. “I mean. Well. That’s a long trip, hm?”

“So you’re saying you—you’ll be—coming along, then?” Fitzjames did not quite meet his eyes as he voiced this question.

Well, what the hell. Francis didn’t have anything else planned for the damn holiday break, aside from the usual gift exchanges. It was either this or spend Christmas with—god forbid—his sisters. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, scratching at the back of his neck. “S’pose I can do. Er. Right. Email me and we’ll, ah, figure out all the details, or whatever. Just don’t make me spend half the stupid bloody holiday stuck in a fucking tent, eh?”

James’s mouth fell open a little, and he was silent for several long seconds. “Francis.” He opened and closed his mouth, as if he had no idea what else to say. “I—thank you so much, you’ve really—”

“Keep your thanks,” Francis interrupted flatly, and fixed him with a warning look. “Let’s...not make this any weirder than it needs to be.”


	2. Chapter 2

> _Hello my dear Erebites_
> 
> _(that’s “erudite trilobites” for those happy few not fortunate enough to have membership in my still-very-humble garage band of yore)_
> 
> _Well, with one week to go until our holiday, I can now reveal the stupendous identity of our mystery guest. Et voila, my esteemed friend and colleague Francis will be joining us. Please do not immediately scare him off._
> 
> _Attached is the google document with all our flight information, as well as the contact sheet in case of emergencies. Looking forward to seeing you all…yes, even you, Tuunbaq. You are a champion among dogs._
> 
> _Warm regards from the London tundra,_
> 
> _JFJ_

Satisfied with finishing this email at last, James meant to settle back into an hour of grading, or perhaps an hour spent browsing Facebook. But before he could decide on either, a flurry of arrivals in his inbox drew his attention back to the browser.

One from Dundy: _Is this the same Francis you’ve been babbling about for the past two years? About time you brought him round to meet everyone, you twat._

Sent as a reply-all. Oh, no.

A second from Peglar: _wow congrats james! happy to meet this new “friend” soon! :)_

The quotation marks around the word _friend_ put James’s stomach in knots. Granted, given Peglar’s alarming and often grammatically-puzzling use of punctuation in his emails and texts, the quotation marks really could mean anything.

Two more from the Goodsir/Kalvak residence: Silna’s message was a simple thumbs-up emoji, while Goodsir’s was…more enthusiastic. It was a ten-second video of one Scottish doctor loudly whooping and cheering in the middle of the damned High Street, dark curls bouncing like springs as he danced wildly with his phone held in the air. “ _Yeah!_ James’s got a hot Irish boyfriend! About time!” With a clunking noise, the picture blurred and wobbled. Sounded like he’d walked straight into something, or possibly someone, judging by the sputtered apology and high-pitched yowl that followed. “Oh! Sorry! Is your cat all right—no, my mate’s just—long story—”

Good Christ. Francis was probably going to break his laptop over one knee in rage. He’d refuse to even get on the plane. Or thrash James’s head in, only to blame it on some copy-machine-related accident.

Before anyone else could weigh in, James quickly typed out another email, much less frivolous this time:

> _WILL YOU STOP TEASING, HE’S OBVIOUSLY COPIED ON ALL OF THESE_
> 
> _(sorry, Francis)_
> 
> _You’ll soon get to meet these lovely/hideous idiots for yourself, I suppose._

Hiding his face in both hands now, James nearly didn’t bother glancing up when his inbox chimed again. It was probably some oath-ridden Howler the likes of which the university would never let through the spam filters again. Likely to be followed up by an in-person tirade of epic proportions. _How dare you let them assume such a thing, I’ve never been so goddamn fucking insulted in all my bloody life,_ et cetera.

He squinted one eye open and peered at his monitor through the cracks in his fingers. 

Message from Francis. Same subject line as the others.

With an apprehensive whining noise, fingertips barely touching the trackpad, James clicked the email open. 

> _Hello, all,_
> 
> _Looking forward to the time and to leaving civilization for a while…sooner the better._
> 
> _James, stop grinding your teeth at your damned monitor, I can hear your back molars splitting all the way down the hall._
> 
> _FRMC_

Good Christ. That was shockingly pleasant for someone who’d once gotten himself ejected from a Tesco for crimes against spoilt prawn salad.

The next email was a rather pedestrian one from Bridgens introducing himself as self-appointed group chef, kindly ignoring all the others’ over-enthusiastic remarks and graciously asking Francis for more detailed coffee, drink, and food preferences.

Francis’s reply was brief yet specific, and still very measured.

By this point, James was forced to wonder if his friend had been abducted by aliens between now and the beginning of the work week. Did Francis not notice everyone’s use of the word _boyfriend,_ as if they were twelve years old and developing idiot crushes? Wasn’t he going to correct them? Shouldn’t the idea of being mistaken for James’s boyfriend for a two-week vacation fill Francis with heartburn-inducing anxiety?

Obviously, James did not get any grading done for the next hour.

##

“Right. You’ll have to say it one las’ time, slow and careful-like, cos I’m convinced my hearing’s gone at last. You’re going _where_ now?”

“Oh, it’s only Canada, you idiot halfwit,” grumbled Francis, adjusting the phone against his ear. “Not like I’m off to the bleeding Sahara.”

He and Blanky had known each other for over twenty years now. They’d met by chance at a hardware store after Francis had moved to town. Eventually, they became friends, picking up odd repair jobs between semesters before Francis had tenure and Blanky opened the pub.

“Well, to be honest, Frank, you’d have surprised me less if you’d opted for a nice beach holiday. Could sooner see you burnin’ yer buns off down under than shovin’ off to some ice-covered cabin with a bunch of other couples and our Jamie for a romantic holiday.”

“For Christ’s sake. Just because I’m going to another fucking continent with Fitzjames doesn’t mean—it’s a damn—” Francis growled out an annoyed noise, and did not finish the sentence. “Now look here, Thomas. Stop jumping to ridiculous conclusions, will you?”

Blanky gave an exaggerated gasp. “Why, Francis Rian Maureen Crozier—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Wha’ sort of gossipy, arsehole house-husband d’you think I am?”

Francis just rolled his eyes. “A bloody effective one. With that great flapping gob, you could power the rumor mill on kinetic motion alone. Between that and pouring pints, I mean.”

“Well,” and here, Blanky seemed to shrug; Francis could nearly picture the man shifting his weight off his prosthetic as he leaned against the nearest doorway. “No matter the reason, you deserve to have a bit of excitement over break, don’t you? Get the fuck out’ve here for a while.”

Francis was still expecting an argument. “And if you say one more shite-fucking word about—oh. Er.” He cleared his throat, uncertain how to treat such a sincere comment. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“Eyup.” Another long pause. “Long as you’ve packed enough rubbers, should have a bang-up time keepin’ warm, mind.”

“Stop _saying_ that, goddamn you!” A loud sigh. “Hope you choke on a bloody latke and die.”

“Aye, well, and a Happy Hanukkah to you too, ye auld bastard. Now I won’t even save ye any, even if Esther cooks enough to feed the bloody synagogue.”

“Happy Hanukkah, you great fucking nuisance,” grumbled Francis finally, and hung up before Blanky could get the last word in.

##

“Sorry,” gasped James. He stepped aside to let Francis into the flat, looked nearly as relaxed as an asylum patient being forced into a straightjacket by two burly nurses. “I’m not finished packing yet.”

“You’re not—Jesus God, you absolute idiot! We’re leaving in an hour!”

“I know that! And I’m sorry, but I can’t—what if I—it’s only that I _hate_ packing, and since we’re going somewhere cold, we’ve got to be prepared for anything, so—”

Leaving three hours before their flight still seemed bloody ridiculous to Francis, who frequently boarded planes somewhere between last call and the golden minute just before the doors closed and the flight attendants scolded you for being so late. But given—whatever this was—perhaps it was more than travel nerves. Maybe James didn’t want to look pathetic in front of all these damn couples.

Sighing, Francis rolled his wheeled duffle to one side and stalked past Fitzjames, turning one way and then another. “For god’s sake, man, calm yourself. Where the hell is your bloody bedroom?”

“Left, two doors down.”

With a frustrated sigh, Francis walked down the hall, James still on his heels. “And what the bleeding hell else would you possibly need to— _Mary, Mother of God._ ”

James’s bedroom, far from being the catalog-inspired, minimalist beige IKEA hell Francis had always imagined, was a complete and very colorful disaster. Gauzy bohemian drapes in a rainbow of reds and purples and yellows fluttered all across one large wall, while the others featured framed art and sculpture and several very camp drag posters with bold letters crammed in among the dark dresser, bookshelf, and bed. You could hardly see the floor or the duvet for suitcases, clothes, emergency supplies, and an obscene amount of accessories, including four pairs of boots, wingtips, a full tuxedo, and—most ridiculously of all—what appeared to be glittery purple unicorn swim trunks.

Francis looked at him with open-mouthed horror. 

“There’s a hot tub,” said James quietly. Under Francis’s scrutiny, he ducked his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb, clearly embarrassed by such utter chaos.

“Right.” Whatever Francis had been about to say flew out the window, along with what appeared to be a tendril of smoke from a lit stick of incense. This was not at all what he’d expected from someone as put-together as Fitzjames. “Well, come on. Let’s see your list. ‘Cause we’re not dragging _that_ all the way to the Americas. You’ll collapse an escalator under the weight, and we’ll get on the news.”

Sighing again, Francis picked up the folded tuxedo shirt and handed it back to James, who gave him an exaggeratedly mournful look and stuck his lip out in a visible pout. “We do a nice dinner. They’ll expect me to look smart.”

“Then look smart in your bloody work clothes. No one could possibly need a tuxedo in the goddamned Arctic Circle.”

Grumbling under his breath, James put theshirt onto a hanger and stuck it back in the closet. Immediately, Francis handed him the next item to return—a glittery evening jacket covered in garish blue-purple sequins.

“No. Come on, Francis, this is for the games night. I’m the fake host! I have to wear it.”

“Oh, really? Then what’s _that_ underneath, hm?” Glaring at Fitzjames’ idiocy, Francis held up the item in question: a nearly identical jacket which was green and gold and black in color.

“Er. Well.” A blush darkened the other man’s high cheekbones. “I wanted options?”

“Pick one, toss back the other. End of story,” demanded Francis. He glanced around the bed again. “Next?”

##

They’d been delayed while the good people of VIA Rail de-iced the train, and by the time they disembarked in Toronto and settled in on the train to Washago, it was clear that the jet lag was hitting Francis like a lorry at full speed. 

Francis had been relatively cheerful on the plane—mainly watching cheesy films without speaking, which qualified as genuine ebullience to James’s mind—but he seemed more annoyed and exhausted now. The deep crease that had developed between his brows was usually the result of young Doctor Irving suggesting they all take up painting classes or form a Christmas choir as a form of faculty bonding.

The second time he saw Francis scrub at red-rimmed eyes with both palms, James asked, “Aspirin, Francis? I have some in my knapsack.”

“Er. Yeah, think I will do. Thanks.”

James handed him three tablets, plus a fresh bottle of water, and felt gratified when Francis downed the meds and drank nearly half the contents in one go.

“Might sleep a bit, to be honest,” he rasped. “Air pressure’s done my head in.”

“Go ahead,” said James, and laid a friendly hand on his wrist in an automatic offer of comfort. Francis did not comment on this gesture. He might not have even noticed it. As for James, his fingers buzzed hot at the strange pleasure of brushing over warm, bare skin. “I’ll make sure none of these ruffians steal your bag in the meantime.”

“You’re a bloody gem,” murmured Francis. He tilted his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

James couldn’t help but smirk at such a compliment. “Thought I was, to quote you directly, ‘an incredible pompous idiot?’”

On the edge of a sigh, Francis said, “That too.” Judging by the way his arm had gone all boneless next to James’s hand, he might be half-asleep already. “‘N shush your stupid mouth.”

“I’ll have you know my mouth is the stuff of legend,” huffed James, and slapped playfully at Francis’s wrist. 

Drowsily, Francis slapped back, which did nothing except knock James’s coconut water and earphones into the floor. 

##

“Hello?” called James as they unlocked the door to the cabin and stepped inside. His voice echoed throughout the house, but no one answered.

Considering the fact that there were no other cars or snowmobiles in the drive, and that they’d had to fetch the key from the lockbox, and that it was bloody fucking _freezing_ inside, Francis guessed they were the first to arrive. Couldn’t be more than six degrees, if that. Likely the place was winterized between stays.

“Well.” Fitzjames exhaled. Warm breath puffed out into a little cloud in front of his face. “S’pose I’ll go turn on the water and heat. If you’ll, ah, open all the faucets, see how the water pressure does, then I’ll bring in the luggage next.”

Privately, Francis was glad to have something to do, as between nodding off onto James’s shoulder on the train and spending another thirty minutes alone in the car after they picked up the rental, he’d reached his limit on innocuous conversation. Probably would need to spend some time alone if he wanted to make sure Fitzjames didn’t boot him out before nightfall.

Walking around the cabin, flipping as many faucet taps and shower nozzles as he could find, Francis was pleasantly surprised by the house itself. When James had mentioned _cabin,_ Francis had pictured some frightful, spider-infested lean-to with cracks in the walls where the wind could get in and old duvets full of asbestos. But now, considering how much James appreciated creature comforts, he realized that assumption had been ridiculous.

The cabin, paneled entirely in a rustic-looking knotted cedar, was light and airy on first impression. Several battered armchairs surrounded a large stone fireplace in the living room. Some were ugly plaid, some a vivid green leather. All rather dated, but homey in their own way. And there seemed to be a fair amount of beds, although he refused to take a room with one of the bunks. He’d racked with too many idiots in the service to go back to it all these years later.

Francis ducked into the other bedrooms while he waited for the water to come on. Most of them were fine, nothing terribly wrong with them, but on first impression, the one nearest the living room was his favourite. It had an en suite toilet and shower, which seemed ideal if they were going to be staying here with six other people, and the king bed looked wide and comfortable. Someone had clearly gotten tired of sleeping on tiny bunks during the rest of the year. Even better, there was a large glass door that opened to the back deck and overlooked a frozen lake.

Nice view, Francis thought ruefully. James must have paid out the nose for a place like this, even if they were sharing it with a group.

A sudden harsh screech from the direction of the tub caught his attention. The shower had come on. For a couple of minutes, Francis occupied himself solely with monitoring the taps. Once he was certain the lines had run clean, and there was no more sputtering, and all the faucets had vaguely warm water, he turned them off.

There was still no sign of James. Francis popped back out to the car and got out their luggage and knapsacks himself, bringing them into the bedroom he’d been admiring earlier to get them out of the way in advance of figuring out the sleeping arrangements. Then he built a fire with the cord of wood sitting next to the fireplace using a few scraps of paper and a couple of matches he found in his pockets.

By the time he’d stoked the fire to a roaring blaze and tossed a disc onto the ancient record player—an old rock album he’d always enjoyed—James had returned from the basement, sweating in his puffy silver coat. He had a grey streak of ash across his forehead and down one hand, and looked as unhappy as Francis had ever seen him.

“Well, you’ll never believe it, but the damned heat refuses to switch on. And it’s making this awful clanging noise. The weird little turning thing’s stuck, and I couldn’t find a toolbox at first, plus I can’t grip it well enough bare-handed to—” He stopped dead in his tracks, and did not finish the sentence. “You did—all this?”

 _All this._ Francis couldn’t help the scrunched-up face he made in reply, and just shrugged. One bloody fire, a few lights switched on here and there, and a record on the turntable to keep himself from going bloody insane amid the silence. Not like he’d invented the damn wheel. He was just keeping useful.

“Here.” Francis couldn’t look at James’s slack-jawed gawp for much longer if they were going to keep on being friends through the rest of the holiday. “Show me where the damn thing is. We’ll get that settled, as well.”

Waving him forward without another word, James brought him down to the basement, a dank, concrete-enclosed space just off the second-floor laundry room. Francis went over to the radiator and held out one hand just over the coils to make sure they weren’t already on. After tinkering with the radiator for a couple of minutes, he knew precisely what the issue was.

“Right.” He sat back on his heels. “Still have that toolbox, then?”

“Yeah,” said James, soft. Metal scraped across the concrete. “What do you need?”

“Giant wrench. Level. Possibly a few shims. Er. Those are the plastic discs you put under furniture legs.”

In under a minute, James produced a battered old wrench covered in rust, a similarly-worn level, and a short, narrow block of wood, probably leftover from some project. But he kept rummaging through the box. “Can’t find those disc things. Damn it.” Although Francis couldn’t see his face, James sounded unusually agitated. “Damn it!”

“It’s all right.” Francis reached out behind him, feeling blindly for the man’s arm. Although he couldn’t shake sense into James from this position, he could at least tap his wrist with his fingers and tell him to calm down. “Don’t panic. Go and crouch down on the other end, just there. I’ll need you to pull the whole thing back in a minute.”

He loosened the nut attaching the radiator to the valve, and, at his signal, James pulled back the radiator body so that they could inspect the floor underneath it. Francis was pleased to note his hunch was dead-on. “Right. See how the floor’s uneven? We’ll have to level the radiator out using the shims, make sure the steam’s getting in. Then, once that’s done, if there’s any water left clanging around in the bottom of the pipes, we’ll let it out, stop the damn rattling.”

After rustling around in some utility shelves, James found a bag of shims. They propped several under the left side of the radiator before pushing it back into place. Francis leveraged up the radiator using the wrench, then they leveled it out on the right side with a few more shims.

“Don’t worry. Almost finished.” After Francis had screwed the handle back in place, he sat back on his heels, admiring his work. No leaks in the bottom. The radiator sat nice and level so that the steam could travel through. “Right. Well, turn up the heat, man. Let’s see if that’s done it.” 

James obeyed. When he came back over, Francis was still sitting on the floor next to the radiator, grinning like an idiot.

“Hear anything?” he asked James.

Narrowing his eyes, James listened for a moment, then shook his head.

Francis motioned him closer, still grinning. “Come put your hand up next to it.”

James knelt down, extending one palm until it was less than an inch away from the coils. His eyes widened when he realized what Francis meant. “It’s warming up.” A genuine smile split his face. “You did it.”

“Well.” Francis waved a careless hand and tossed the wrench back into the tool kit. “Dunno how useful I was, really. Seems they’ve had this problem before.”

“No, it—I—” James grabbed Francis’s arm, fingers tightening in Francis’s sleeve. _“Thank you.”_

Bemused at this dramatic show of gratitude, Francis tried to catch his friend’s eye. “It’s only radiator repairs, James. Not spontaneous combustion.”

James ducked his head, directing most of the next sentence to Francis’s shirtsleeve. “I know it’s _just_ repair, and it’s _just_ a couple of weeks here with friends, but I’m—” his voice got smaller “—I want everything to be perfect. And I want them to like you. Not that they wouldn’t like you. You’re lovely. And so are they. I’m being so damn stupid, Francis. It’s only the jet lag. Fuck. Sorry.”

He blew out a sigh, and scrubbed at his forehead with his free hand.

“James, you really don’t have to apologize for being nervous. I,” he chose his words carefully, “well, I understand why you would want the holiday to go smoothly, all things considered.”

“All things? They think you’re my boyfriend, Francis.”

“That’s—fine.” Francis just shrugged. “I mean, your mates can think whatever they want. Long as you don’t make me look like an idiot, I’ll play along. Or whatever. Within reason. All I’m saying is don’t worry about me, right? You said yourself, it’s all couples, and you get together every year to do nothing and mill around the fire. No reason it should be any different now.”

James looked completely gobsmacked. “You’re serious about this.”

“Well. We _are_ friends, aren’t we? Friends…keep each other out of trouble.”

“Yeah, but this is different,” James pointed out, soft. His thumb kept swiping back and forth along Francis’s arm, like a particularly slow windshield wiper. “Because you’ll have to pretend like we’re—”

Upstairs, there was a sudden burst of noise: footsteps, and the low thud of heavy objects being set down onto the floor or counter. “Hello?” came a faint voice.

James pulled his hand back, giving Francis an apologetic glance. “Think that’s Bridgens and Henry.”

“Right.” Francis glanced around. “Well, er. Go and say hello. Turn up the thermostat while you’re there. I’ll get everything cleaned up down here.”

“Yeah, okay.” James got to his feet. “Suppose I should start putting up the lights anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagining the cabin looks like something like [this](https://www.cottagesincanada.com/11312), but much more kooky and vintage-y.
> 
> If you care at all about the accuracy of depicting radiator repairs, just google This Old House and watch a bunch of how-to videos, because that's what I did. :D


	3. Chapter 3

“Doctor Crozier?” chirped Peglar when he clapped eyes on Francis, standing amid a sea of perishable goods and grocery bags that were strewn along the kitchen counter. James took particular delight in watching Francis startle and blush at the use of his title, then relax slightly when he saw who was using it.

“Oh—Harry Peglar, isn’t it? Hello. I—” He wagged one finger in a knowing way. “You were in my geology class, last I saw you. Six or seven years back, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s right! Just before I graduated.”

“‘Course. Er. Good to see you again, anyway. Sorry, I, er, didn’t look at the names on the emails very closely.”

“Don’t worry, I never do with this group,” confessed Peglar as he rounded the counter to say hello. “Lo, James!”

“Peglar.” James let himself be drawn into a hug, but shot Francis a piercing glare as the younger man pulled back, and returned to his task. “Francis, when on earth did you teach  _ geology? _ ”

“One or two courses, a couple of years before you arrived,” said Francis with a shrug, as if handling a full load of classes for an entirely different department other than his tenured one was perfectly normal. “Our esteemed provost thought it would be  _ seemly  _ for lecturers to branch out from their specialties. Yours truly was the first and possibly last test subject. Don’t think the program lasted more than a year or two.”

He laughed, clearly self-deprecating, but Peglar spoke up a second time. “Don’t let him fool you. Still one of my favourites.”

James was still agape. “Well, what was the class on, then?”

“Ah.” Francis scratched at the back of his neck. “Went a bit off-road with the material. Nobody in their right mind wants to look at a bunch of rocks for a whole term. So we built in the history component, as well.”

“History of Geologic Science in Naval Exploration,” Peglar offered from his place crouched in front of the crisper. “Or something like that. Sorry, Doctor Crozier.”

A small smile played around Francis’s mouth. “Call me anything but my bloody title while we’re here, why don’t you? This idiot’ll never let me live it down otherwise.”

James was still too stunned to contradict being called an idiot in front of his friends. “But—so you just—created an entirely new class outside your specialty? With no warning?”

“Not entirely new. Done some work in magnetics before, as part of my dissertation. Scientific advancements through colonization and exploration.”

“I remember writing about that in the final paper.” Henry was still playing refrigerator Tetris. “Thought it was really cool. Compasses in the Arctic, and all that.”

“Well. Yours was one of the best of the lot, as I recall. Had a real knack for it.”

Peglar flushed with pride; James wasn’t sure if Francis knew how difficult school had been for Henry or if he was simply attempting to deflect attention away from his own merits with a well-timed compliment. Either way, such effusive kindness was much appreciated.

And apparently, Francis wasn’t done yet. “And you—wasn’t there some sort of art thing you were into, at the time? Did you get to pursue that at all, once you…?”

Peglar lit up like a Christmas tree at being so remembered, and gave James a delighted look. “Yeah, I did, thanks. Was a photography student last he saw me. Now I take portraits—nature pictures for magazines, mostly. Lot of weddings in the beginning, though.”

“That’s how Henry met Bridgens,” offered James, before Francis could put his foot in his mouth. “Florist.”

“Ah,” said Francis with a nod. “Very good.”

They did not have a chance to discuss this further before Bridgens swept into the room, carrying a large box of colorful holidays tins. “All right, lads, where’re we setting up the baked goods this year?”

“Far table,” said Peglar without blinking. “Close to the fire.”

##

By the time most of the others arrived, bedraggled and windswept by the skiff of snow now covering the ground, Francis was deep into a mug of hot spiced cider that Bridgens had made up for the occasion, and was quite at his leisure. Although he did not volunteer much, apart from answering the usual small-talk questions and asking a few similar ones of the new arrivals, he felt cheerful enough. It must have shown on his face, as James kept giving him quietly-relieved looks between lulls in conversation. Like he couldn’t believe Francis had held his tongue for so long.

When they all decided to retire for the night, Francis also realized his luggage and knapsack were still in the room he’d admired earlier, along with James’s things. And now everyone was going to bed, which meant—

“Ah, James?”

Already dressed in a pair of fleece pajama pants and a plain t-shirt, James wandered back in from the toilet smelling of lotion, with his toothpaste still clutched in one hand. “Hm?”

“Been thinking I should probably, er, kip in one of the bunk beds or something. Would that—I mean, you’d be all right with that, yeah?”

“Oh.” James frowned, and seemed puzzled. “You mean you don’t want to stay in here?”

Francis was so uncomfortable with the question that he laughed, which was probably the cider’s fault. “Not sure. Didn’t think through all the options.” He shrugged. “Any recommendations?”

James’s mouth twitched as if he were trying to smile. “Well, ah. Dundy’s got sleep apnea. Snores like the dickens. With your temper, you’ll probably murder him before morning. And they’ve only got a top bunk free in that room, anyway.”

“No,” said Francis immediately, not liking the idea of climbing rickety wooden ladders in the middle of the night on his bad leg.

“Let me see. Er. You could stay with Harry and Silna, but there’s only two beds, the full and the twin. So unless you’d like to share with man’s best friend—”

Francis made a disgusted face.

James seemed to understand precisely why this rankled him. “Yeah, I wouldn’t fancy it, either. Well. This is a bit biased, and don’t tell him I said so, but you oughtn’t stay with Peglar and Bridgens, either. John’s _terribly_ handsy, and you’d have an awful time of it, in there alone.”

Useful to know, actually. Francis never would have guessed that from a man John’s age, let alone one who had multiple homemade cider recipes. But then again, he wasn’t one to judge. They seemed happy together, and had been more than kind to him so far. “S’pose my best options are the sofa or in—in here, then.” He let out a sigh, and glanced out toward the living room. The sofa wasn’t terrible on first impression. Not exactly plush, but the fire was pleasant, and there were plenty of blankets and pillows to help him bear it up.

“Sofa’s probably a thousand years old. You’ll wake up stiff as a brick.”

The fact that James could reliably predict what Francis was thinking to such a degree ought to have been terrifying. But in this state, in this cabin, it was merely convenient.

“Well, it’s not like you want me faffing about in here.”

“Obviously I want you to be comfortable,” said James evenly. “You’re my guest, and we’re on holiday. You’re entitled to that much.”

“Sound like you’re a bloody concierge.”

They stared at each other for a moment before James cleared his throat. 

“If sharing a bed’s not something you—I’ll sleep in with Dundy, or whatever, and you can stay in here. You should have the room.”

“Jesus God, you fucking idiot,” Francis hissed, because Fitzjames now had the crestfallen air of a know-it-all who’d gotten a B-plus on an exam instead of their usual A. “I’m not  _ afraid _ to share a bed with you, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why on earth would I mean that? I never said—”

“Well, you—obviously it’s—”  _ I’m here in the place of your boyfriend, aren’t I,  _ Francis could not force himself to say.  _ They’ll expect us to share a bed, if not only a room.  _ “It’s a king bed. Even your freakishly long legs can’t kick me in the stones from that range.”

A small smile played at the corner of James’s mouth. “I’m not two hundred centimeters of legs, Francis.”

“Aye, well. You’re not even two hundred centimeters, so there goes the rest of that argument.”

“Now that we’ve set the record on my height, we really ought to settle this. Do you want to sleep here or not?”

Francis rubbed at his eyes with a groan. Honestly, he was starting to get tired. And the sofa now seemed like it was a mile away, in comparison to this warm little room.

“S’pose it’ll look weird if I don’t,” he finally muttered, trying to show that he was aware of the nuances at play. James had invited him to save face in front of his mates. “They’ll all think we’ve had a row on the first night.”

“Technically, we’ve had worse,” James pointed out with a shrug. “By comparison, this is positively cordial.”

“Yeah.” 

“Do you want to stay in with me?” asked James again, soft.

Apparently Francis had already made his decision without realizing it. “If you kick me in the bloody shins all night, things will deteriorate. I’ll warn you now.”

“Oh, god above,” huffed James, but the wide grin that split his face was positively wolfish. Opening his suitcase, he began packing a giant stack of clothes into the bureau, whisking shirts and shorts and socks into the narrowest drawer before Francis could even blink. “Well, never let it be said that I’m unaccommodating. I’ve left you half the bureau space. And your own place for toiletries.”

“Why would I unpack? I’ll just have to pack it all over.” Francis said this in as innocent a tone as he could muster, mainly so he could watch James’s mouth fall open in patent outrage.

“You are a heathen among men.” James took up Francis’s suitcase by the handle and thrust the bag in his direction. “And I’ll not put up with a pile of clothes looming in the corner for the entire holiday. Now  _ mush. _ ”

“Seem to put up with it fine in your usual life,” chirped Francis, and laughed when James shot him an unamused glare. But he took the suitcase without further complaint, set it on the bed, and unzipped it so he could toss articles in drawers.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, when James woke, he found himself sleeping alone. Swiping around the night table for his watch, he was less surprised after seeing that it was nearly nine. Francis’s side of the bed was neatly made, and there was a rustling in the kitchen. A familiar scent stirred through the air. 

James pulled his robe on over his pajamas and went to investigate. He found Francis standing in front of the range, a battered metal percolator in one hand, placing a large flower-print mug in front of James with the other. “Here. Coffee.”

“Oh, thank Christ.” Probably the jet lag, but James was knackered. “‘M so damn tired.”

“I can tell,” Francis said wryly.

James’s mind was not quite firing at full speed, so it took him nearly a minute and several sips of coffee to wonder _why_ this was so, and why Francis was so cheerful.

“You’re not a morning person. Why’re you like this?”

“Like what?” God, the man was practically twinkling. “Got a half-decent amount of sleep, if you must know. No stupid person’s phoned or texted me since we’ve arrived. Plus I walked out a bit before you got up, had a look around. Beautiful country.”

“Yeah,” said James through a yawn, still barely coherent. He was half-tempted to ask Francis if he had been kidnapped by aliens sometime between the cider and the coffee. 

“You know you talk in your sleep,” said Francis next, with a sly smile, and James suddenly felt very, very nervous. 

“That’s—absurd.”

Francis was still smiling. “And true. Ten minutes after we turned the lights out, you started babbling about all sorts of things.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“Well, you did.” He took a sip of his coffee, now hiding a gap-toothed grin behind the rim of his mug. “Rather funny, really. Once I realized you were barely conscious.”

“Christ.” James heaved out a sigh. “What did I say?”

“Right. Ah, first you asked me if I was having a good time, then you giggled to yourself about us bunking together for several minutes, and then you started talking about some potluck thing from back when Franklin was chair. I’ve no idea what that was about.”

“Me either,” said James, very careful not to say something idiotic. “Sorry.”

Francis just shrugged. “No skin off my nose.”

James was starting to feel more alert. “I didn’t—Paul never mentioned the talking.”

“Oh.”

“Then again, we didn’t talk about a lot of things. So I s’pose that was par for the course. Sure I made all sorts of ridiculous comments to him in that state, as well.” 

“Come off it. They weren’t that ridiculous.”

“Things ended badly between us, you know.” Grimacing, James took a long drag from his mug. Might as well share that part of the story with Francis while they had time. It was only fair. He was probably curious. “He—well, er, cheated. Several times, in fact. And by the end of it I just—I was so damn tired of the lying. Never stopped. Bloody disappointing.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Francis.

“Well, of course not. I mean, I was trying to—” James thought about what he really wanted to say next. “For a long time, I thought he might be…The One. Which is ridiculous in hindsight, but…there was this image I carried around of, ah, the sort of couple we were. Or could be. How people would look at us. And in my mind, there I was, doing—whatever the fantasy was, being a plus-one at some elaborate gala or premiere, hobnobbing at an incredible afterparty—and there he’d be at my side, all chatty and winsome and gorgeous. He’d be so proud to introduce me to everyone. And people would look at us, all, _Christ, they’re so perfect together, how bloody unfair._ ” He let out a sigh, trying not to meet Francis’s eyes for several seconds. “Isn’t that stupid?”

Francis’s expression was inscrutable. “That’s…a very specific fantasy.”

“Come on,” sighed James, and fixed Francis with as good a glare as he could manage this early in the morning. “It’s nonsense. Take the piss out of me if you like. Go ahead.” He waved one hand in a _hurry-up_ motion, making circles in the air using his wrist. “I can stand it.”

“Worst part was the bit where you called that fuck-faced weasel _handsome,_ ” said Francis after several seconds.

James choked on his coffee. “Beg your pardon?” 

“Well, he wasn’t,” repeated Francis, louder this time, folding both arms across his chest. He looked positively ebullient at having something to argue over at long last. “Bloody _Paul._ Face like a weedy goat-fucker.”

“He’s an underwear model, you ninny,” James drawled, aware that he was taking the bait but not caring one whit. “At his last shoot, they made him up to look like Draco Malfoy.”

“That stupid poncy chap from the vampire films? Fucking horrifying.”

James’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “All right: first of all, you’re not fooling anyone with that act, and you _will_ tell me more about how you saw that film. Second: you really didn’t think Paul was handsome? Everyone else in the department went gaga.”

“Eh.” Francis scowled, and wobbled one flat palm from side-to-side. “Fine for an albino visigoth, I imagine.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Why? Is that not accurate?” Francis’s cheeky grin widened. “Victorian circus freak, then. Anemic Hapsburg.”

“He wasn’t _that_ pale.”

“Says you. Like one of those bug-eyed poets with tuberculosis.”

James was laughing in earnest, now. “Only you could manage to make the word _poets_ sound like a goddamn medical condition.”

Still chipper, Francis turned back to the stove. “Here. Let’s get you some more coffee. You’re becoming more normal already.”

Absently, James nodded. “Well. Have to get my energy up for the first event, anyway.”

“What are you talking about, _event_?”

##

Standing in the middle of the living room, clad in his ridiculous sequined jacket and a pair of dark trousers, James was freshly showered, and had even curled his hair in order to kick off the day in style. Privately, Bridgens was always glad to have a little distraction so he could finish lunch and dinner preparations without taking up the entire kitchen.

“Friends. Countrymen. Accomplished lady—”

Silna flipped James two fingers without looking up from her crossword.

“—welcome to _The James Fitzjames Carnivale Games, Year Nine: Tuunbaq’s Revenge_.” He bowed to the room before casting a sidelong glance at Francis. “Now, for those of you who haven’t been here before, Carnivale is a festive celebration of daring athleticism, innate poise, fabulous stage presence, and—”

“Get on with it,” LeVesconte jeered. He always was more boisterous at the beginning of the holiday, but particularly now, as he was still waiting for his wife Meera to arrive.

“—various miseries we aren’t able to inflict on each other throughout the year. Now! Our first event is a team competition, loosely based on this nation’s grandest ice sport—”

“Please don’t make me skate,” murmured Goodsir with a nervous look.

“ _Curling,”_ James exclaimed, and brandished a plain, flat-headed mop in one hand: the kind used to clean industrial facilities or primary schools. “But, as we do not have a hack, stabilizers, league-worthy rocks, brooms, or appropriate footwear, your only job will be to sweep. Working in pairs, each team competes to see who can sweep their rock the furthest.”

“What do we get if we win the whole thing?” asked Francis dryly.

“The pride of knowing you’re a Carnivale champion.” James tossed his hair out of his face. “Obviously.”

Francis raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“All right, fine. You win two economy tickets to the European country of your choice, courtesy of my frequent flyer miles.”

John locked eyes with Peglar, who whistled under his breath. Maybe they could take that Roman holiday next year, after all.

“Right, then. Who’s throwing the—stone thingies?” asked Francis. “Or whatever they’re called?”

“Silna,” answered several people at once.

“She’s got the best aim out of all of us,” Peglar told Francis. “Played in the Native Youth Olympics.”

Francis looked impressed. “Really? Which event?”

“Two-foot high kick, stick pull. Couple of others,” said Goodsir. “You won the gold that year, didn’t you?”

Silna let out a loud sigh, as if having this piece of information brought up, or even being asked to participate in the games, was the worst part of her holiday. But a tiny smile played across the corners of her mouth, and only widened when she glanced over at Goodsir. Beaming, he tapped one of her knees with his.

“God,” huffed Francis with a knowing glance in James’s direction. “We’re gonna get murdered, aren’t we?”

“No! Francis, where on earth is your holiday spirit?” James gave him a sly look. “Plus, I haven’t announced how we’ll pick teams. You may not even be paired up with me.”

The reply was swift and immediate. “If you leave me on my own for this entire damned debacle, I will toss you in a snowbank and fly home, and I won’t even feel bad about it.”

James blushed and laughed.

Truthfully, John was glad to see Francis participating in Carnivale, silly as this all must have seemed from the outside. Obviously, James loved having an audience, but he loved having his boyfriend joining in the fun even more. And it was high time they had a Christmas holiday where James didn’t spend half the day coaxing his boyfriend to spend time with them.

##

“All right, folks!” Standing in front of the ice-and-snow-covered lake, facing two occupied kayaks, Goodsir motioned for silence. “Our first individual event, Boaty McBoatsail, is a go! Contestants have waxed the bottom of their plastic kayak, and will now be pushed by volunteers across the lake. The person who achieves the longest distance is the winner! Ready! Set!” Raising his green flag, he waited several seconds before bringing it down in a large arc. “Go!”

Immediately, the four people in front of him sprang to life: Peglar pushed James in a red kayak, and Silna was pushing LeVesconte in a blue one. 

“Peglar and James with a great start out of the gate; let’s see if Silna can direct Henry where he needs to be!”

Crozier and Bridgens were on the snowy shore, bellowing at the men through cupped mittened hands. Their breath made small clouds in the icy air.

“Come on, James, lean your giant fucking torso forward so he can push you, Jesus fucking Christ—”

“Great job, Henry! Go on, Silna! You’re looking fantastic!”

Goodsir watched with bated breath as both kayaks glided across the ice with a sharp, heavy  _ shhhh.  _ Inside the boats, James and Henry were crouched as low as they could, with James even holding his paddle longways to prevent any wind drag.

After several long seconds, both boats screeched to a slow stop, with Henry’s blue kayak stopping just a few centimeters short of James’s.

“Is it me? Yes!” Still sitting in the kayak, James pumped his fists in the air; then, because apparently this was not enough celebration, he began to raise his paddle high above his head, hoisting it so wildly he listed right and nearly ended up on his side on the ice. Harry was laughing too much to get out the official call. “And the winner is…”

“Victory for Team Phantasmic Voyage! Francis! We’ve got an—”

Without warning, the ice under James split apart with a thunderous  _ crack.  _ He yelped, tipped sideways, and was pulled beneath the water before anyone could move. The next thing Harry heard was a hoarse, awful yell from the shore.

_ “James!”  _ Francis ran full tilt across the ice toward where James’s boat now lay flipped in the water.

Harry rushed to stop Francis before he could get himself killed. “Fuck! Dundy, stay there!” he bellowed to LeVesconte, who was already trying to clamber out of his own kayak. “Silna, help him—”

“Got it!” she yelled back, already moving.

By the time Harry reached Francis, a few meters away from James’s overturned boat, Francis had already peeled off gloves and scarves and was working on his other layers. “James! Hang on!”

“Don’t.” Harry grabbed Francis’s outstretched arm in two clumsy hands before the man could try to dive into the water. “Diving reflex could send you into cardiac arrest.”

He thought Francis was going to wheel back and punch him in the face, but suddenly, one limp hand parted the frigid water before them, scrabbling for purchase on the side of the kayak. James’s nose and mouth broke the dark surface of the water a moment later with an almost inaudible gasp.

Francis practically shoved Harry sideways. Going down on hands and knees, he grasped James’s hand until his own knuckles whitened from the pressure, then pulled James up from the water: first by the hand, and then by the shoulders of his puffy vest.

“Oh, god, come on, talk to me.” Turning him onto his back, Francis yanked at the zipper of James’s down vest. When it refused to budge, he gave up and sliced it open with a pocketknife so that he and Goodsir could ease the sodden jacket off of his chest. “James? Can you hear me?”

Wheezing for breath, James still couldn’t speak.

Goodsir motioned Bridgens over from the shore. “Help me get him inside!” Between the three men, very carefully, they skirted the shoreline until they were back on steady ground. Once back in the house, they lay James down on the washroom floor.

Immediately, Goodsir moved Francis to one side so he could start taking the vitals: James’s heart rate was low but not dysrhythmic, blood pressure equally low, breath rate shallow and weak.

“Wh—wh’re y’doin—?”

Slurred speech. Christ.“Don’t move, James,” Goodsir told him. “You fell in the water. We’re going to take your wet clothes off now.”

James was shivering too much to reply. He seemed lethargic, too. Goodsir glanced quickly at Bridgens and Francis. “Francis, help me get these things off. Cut them if you have to, but don’t jostle him, and don’t rub his muscles to dry him; it’ll aggravate any tissue damage.”

“Right.”

“Bridgens, we need dry blankets to wrap him in, at least two hot water bottles, and something warm and nonalcoholic. Preferably sweet. He can’t drink it till he’s fully conscious.”

Bridgens departed without a word.

Slowly, Francis and Goodsir stripped James of all his other clothes, only having trouble with the ski pants and his boxers, which they didn’t cut for fear of hurting him. Once he was stripped bare and Francis had dried the man off as best he could, they moved him to the bed, where Bridgens had already laid out a thick blanket.

“There you are, James.” Francis rushed back to James’s side once they had him situated and wrapped up like a giant burrito. He began to squeeze the extra water from his hair before gently combing it out onto the pillows. “It’s all right. You’ll warm up, and you’ll be all right.”

Now using a battered legal pad as a makeshift chart, Goodsir was writing down everything from the last few minutes.

“Does he—should I warm him? Used to do that in SCSR training.”

Glancing up in surprise, Harry took in the fraught, vaguely tearful expression on Francis’s face and bit back his explanation about how that was outdated advice. The poor man looked like he might collapse from worry already. He needed something to do. And judging by the way Francis’s hands kept straying toward James’s arms, then skittering backwards, he needed that physical reassurance, too. 

A distant part of Harry’s mind, buried beneath years of muscle memory and C&E training, thought this rather beautiful.

“You can, yes,” he said, and gestured to the other side of the bed with the pen in his hand. “Long as you’re careful.”

This warning was so patently obvious it almost didn’t need voicing. Francis stripped off most of his own remaining layers till he was in only his boxers and a thin t-shirt. He sat down on the other end of the bed so gingerly it took him nearly five minutes to settle in next to James. As carefully as if he were trying not to wake the man from a light sleep, he curled closer to James and slowly slid one arm beneath his pillow, then softly rested the other arm on top of James’s chest.

“Ow,” whimpered James, nearly inaudible.

“Fuck. Sorry.” Wincing, Francis moved his free arm again, letting it settle just at the edge of James’s hair. “There you are. Just relax.”

“F-F-Fra’cis.”

“Shhh.” Francis pressed his forehead into James’s now-covered shoulder, nearly stroking his hair. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Watching them together like this felt like an intrusion. Putting the legal pad aside, Goodsir decided he would be better served checking in on them every half hour or so, as opposed to standing here like a great lump of lead. “Right. Here’s what we’ll do….”

A few minutes later, he was back in the living room, updating everyone else on James’s condition. “He’s resting now. All hypothermia symptoms seem mild, but we don’t want to take chances, obviously. Francis is with him.”

“I’m sorry,” Dundy said again, for possibly the hundredth time in as many seconds. Huddled in a blanket, and drinking a steaming mug of whatever Bridgens had put together, he still seemed physically fine, if slightly shocked. “I didn’t mean to—“

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Goodsir sat down, allowing the fatigue to overtake him. Hard to keep up with the adrenaline crash sometimes. “Honestly, luck was on his side. Considering how much he swims, how cold the water was….”

“Course.” Dundy gave them a sort of strained smile, then averted his eyes to the floor. “Only James could overturn a kayak in subzero temperatures and come out with an even better story.”

Bridgens, still hovering around the back of the sofa, touched Goodsir on the shoulder. “Harry, anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Er. Yeah,” said Goodsir, with no real idea which one he’d agreed to. After a moment, he felt Silna perch next to him on the armrest. She slid her fingers through the side of his hair. He closed his eyes. “I’ll keep looking in on him every half hour or so.”

Silna’s nose tickled the space just above his right ear, the breath of her question so low it was almost inaudible. “And Francis?”

“Hmph. No use trying.”

Given how panicked Francis had been at first, and how much he’d insisted on doing afterward, that man wasn’t going to leave James’s side anytime soon. Clearly things between James and Francis were much more serious than anyone thought.

He didn’t realize he had said that last bit out loud until Silna spoke up, her voice a warm rumble against his ear. “No shit. Where the hell did  _ that  _ come from, two months after a breakup?” 

Opening his eyes, Goodsir repositioned himself so he was leaning against her shoulder. “Dunno. Loads better than Paul, though.”

“Oh, god, yeah. Paul was a real shitheel.”

A murmur of amusement spread through the room.

“I mean, they could’ve had feelings for each other before Paul happened,” Peglar offered from the other end of the sofa, cradling a coffee mug in both hands. “When I was a student, everyone in the history department thought those two hated each other. They were always at each other’s throats. I dunno. Maybe there was more to it than frustration.” He sipped his coffee. “I’ve never seen Francis look like he just did. Although he’s never been the sort to talk all about his deep feelings, mind. Some of my classmates used to say he probably lived in his office, ‘coz they never saw him leave the building before nine or ten at night.”

“Mm.” Dundy pushed himself into a seated position, but because he was tucking into a particularly big jam square, all they heard was a vague noise of agreement from what looked like a sentient blanket burrito. Goodsir snorted in amusement.

“And James doesn’t really seem like Francis’s type on the surface of it,” Peglar continued. A thoughtful look lit up his face. “But maybe that’s why they get on so well, you know? Both lecturers. Shared interests.”

“Didn’t have much in common with Paul, though, and they still managed to shack up,” Dundy pointed out.

“I imagine they’re well past  _ shacking up,  _ given Francis’s feelings,” Bridgens said gently, touching Peglar’s shoulder as he came over to join them. Goodsir closed his eyes again as Bridgens continued. “Clearly, Francis loves him very much. And James loves Francis, too, or he wouldn’t have brought him here at all. We really shouldn’t speculate about the rest unless they tell us outright.”

“Aw,” Silna groaned. “John, you’re no fun.”

Goodsir hummed out a laugh as he closed his eyes again, resting his head in the space between Silna’s arm and her chest. “Wake me in twenty minutes.”

##

The light outside their window had faded from white to dull purple and then to deep black before Francis—who spent a long blur of time simply watching his friend breathe as the shivering stopped and the waxy pink color faded from his cheeks—heard his name on James’s lips again.

“Francis.”

“Hm?”

A slight pause. “Your shirt says  _ Property of George Clooney  _ on it.”

Glancing down with a start, Francis plucked at the bright blue fabric with a scowl. The t-shirt was softer and larger than any he remembered owning. “Well. Don’t tell his wife.” Despite his best efforts, a smile was already tugging at his lips.

James made an affirmative noise. “And I won’t tell our good Captain, either.”

Was Francis shaking from the lingering sense of cold, or from sheer relief at hearing James joke this way, after so many hours spent worrying? “Who?” he asked.

“Steve Rogers. Intrepid hero. Fearsome runner. Dashing wearer of smedium t-shirts.”

“Oh,” said Francis, rolling his eyes. “ _ That _ captain.”

“Mm. Your favourite.”

“He isn’t my favourite,” Francis replied.

He could feel James’s breath fanning across one side of his neck, but could not bring himself to glance over, or to shift position. The comforter and sheets were all rucked up between them, and although James was still wrapped in the thick blanket, Francis could feel the outline of James’s shoulder pressed into the crook of his arm. Long tangled hair, mostly dry but still knotted from this morning, tickled Francis’s cheek.

“Francis,” said James again, very low.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by brisk steps as someone unseen flipped on the lamps. After a second, Goodsir’s voice, thin and tired, rang through the room. “‘Lo, James. Just checking in.”

He did not realize they were both awake; Francis sat up with a groan and James stirred restlessly within his blanket, attempting to free his arms and chest.

“Hang on.” Goodsir stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Got to take your vitals.”

James sank back into the pillows with an aggravated noise. “I’m really fine.”

“No, you aren’t.” Francis tapped the side of James’s leg with one hand. “Let him work.”

Goodsir went through the rest of his routine in a detached, efficient way. James watched him like a hawk until the doctor glanced up and gave him a small smile.

“Well. So far so good, I think.”

“Doctor, if you don’t let me get up from this bloody bed very soon,” James drawled, sounding much more like Francis than should have been possible, “I’m going to make a run for it in the night.”

Ducking his head with a laugh, Goodsir put his legal pad down. “You can get up and eat some stew, is what you can do.”

“What about tomorrow?” A hopeful gleam entered James’s face as he pushed himself up on both elbows. The blankets pooled heavily around his bare and small waist. Francis could not stop staring at the contrast of thick blue foam against lean, well-defined muscles. “That’s still all right, isn’t it?”

“Pfft. You won’t be going hunting in this condition.”

_ “Harry.” _

“Well, you won’t. Doctor’s orders,” said Goodsir with another snort. He glanced at Francis, who quickly looked away from James’s middle. “Silna wants you with us, though, Francis.”

“Yeah, sorry. What are we––?”

Bridgens’s voice rang out from the hallway. “James, can I tempt you with soup yet?”

Francis and James exchanged an amused look.

“Yes, all right, I suppose you can,” James called back airily, as if he had not spent most of the day recovering from a very serious injury. “Let me put on some clothes so I don’t shock you with my nakedness.”

With a merry chortle, Bridgens retorted, “Be shocked if you had on clothes to begin with.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, there is talk of (bow) hunting early in the chapter, but no on-page animal death/gore.

Five minutes before the groups were set to depart for hunting the next morning, Francis felt a hand on the back of his shoulder. He turned to see Silna, fully dressed and clearly ready to go, motioning him toward the back door where Harry was waiting with a wriggling Tuunbaq. 

“Yeah, all right,” he said, giving James a small wave as they departed. “Bye, then.”

“Be careful,” James offered, still on the couch in his pajamas nursing a mug of hot tea.

Francis wasn’t sure why they were leaving so early until they got out on the trailhead, where Silna, leading the way, had stopped near a fork. 

“Know how to check a trap?” she asked.

And then it clicked. “Hang on. Is that why you go out so early every morning?”

Walking behind Francis, Harry barked out a loud laugh as Tuunbaq pulled him toward the bank to smell some exposed roots. “It’s why we’re allowed to leave the rest of them behind so often. Think she saved LeVesconte about three hundred dollars in fresh meat the first year alone.”

“They’re too loud.” Silna knelt down to examine a little grove of branches near a particularly large tree—likely where she’d laid one of the traps.

Grinning, Harry tilted his face up to the pale sky, gaze clear and hopeful. “Aye, and they’re shit at aiming. Just like me. But it’s fun, and it gets us outdoors for more than a trip to the shops. Can’t say I mind much.”

“S’pose not.” Francis could see the appeal. Although his bad leg ached a bit, it was nice to be outside. He didn’t have much opportunity to go walking back home. Or hunting, either, not that it mattered. “Can I, ah, do anything to help?”

Silna had already returned, now carrying a fairly large snow-white rabbit over one shoulder. “You can set the next trap.”

By the time they got to the hunting blind, which was farther out than Francis had hoped, he was glad for the opportunity to rest and be directed in small tasks while Silna and Goodsir efficiently sorted out their duties. She set up three bows near the sight: two sleek, dark compounds with fiberglass arrows and an old-fashioned, rather worn one made of wood, plus a variety of ancient-looking arrows.

“My father teased me for this one,” she said when she caught Francis looking, holding up the compound bow with a half-smile. “Last time we went out together, he made the first kill with _that.”_ She pointed to the old bow. “His grandfather’s. Said I’d wasted my money.”

“Never let you live that down, eh?” Harry piped up from the other side of the wooden blind. He was pouring something hot from a thermos into three insulated mugs. “But then he met me, realized I’d need a bit more help than your ancestors.”

Silna cut him an unamused look. “Dad liked you.”

“Yeah. ‘Course. I mean, it was good, in the end.”

Sensing that this was a fraught subject, Francis redirected the conversation towards getting the supplies and the hot water bottles and the rest of the gear out of their rucksacks.

“Here,” Harry said. He handed Francis a stainless steel Thermos depicting a grey-haired anime character wearing a highly ruffled pink apron. “Bit of spiced cider should cut the worst of the chill.”

The cartoon was so lurid it made Francis’s eyes hurt. “Please tell me this is James’s.”

“Nah. Bought it for Peglar, the first year John brought him.”

Francis nearly choked on his first sip of cider. He was smirking too much to care. “Fucking Christ.” Old man in an apron posing seductively with tea. It was funny when he thought about it. “Glad you didn’t do that to me, eh?”

Silna shot him a darkly amused look. “James would have killed us.”

As each person settled back into the wooden bench, and Silna took up one of the compound bows, they lapsed into silence for several minutes.

“So how long have you two been an item?” Harry finally asked.

“Er.” Francis couldn’t remember if he and James had ever discussed this. Probably best to keep things vague. “Not long.” He cleared his throat. “Been friends for awhile, though. Depends on who you ask. I really wasn’t sure.”

“Always nicer that way, I think.” Goodsir seemed not to mind that this wasn’t a very descriptive answer. “Sil and I were friends first, as well. Only real friend I had on the ice, being honest.”

Wordlessly, Silna turned from her post and cast Harry a displeased scowl for making so much noise, clearly telling her boyfriend to shut the fuck up. Francis had to stifle a laugh behind his mug at the way she rolled her eyes as she turned back to the window. 

“Well. We did all right, in the end.” Goodsir flushed a little as he met Francis’s amused gaze. “Seems you and James have a good thing going, anyway.”

“Yeah.” Francis scratched at the back of his neck. “It’s, ah, been quite a surprise.”

Goodsir’s brows knitted together, clearly not understanding what this meant. Francis’s first instinct was to apologize, and then, oddly, to try and clarify what he was talking about—that he and James had been getting along so well over the past few days, and that James was a completely different and more likeable person when you peeled away all his superficiality, although there probably wasn’t a good way to say that without coming off like a complete bell-end—

With a hissed shushing noise, Silna held up a closed fist, meaning they had to stop talking. She’d clearly spotted something beyond their field of view.

Locking eyes, Francis and Goodsir nodded at each other, and, after a moment’s pause, crept closer to the tent flap opening to try and glimpse what she was hunting.

##

Just two hours after the hunting parties had set out, a short, two-note whistle pierced the air, followed by several voices. James raised his eyebrows at Bridgens and put down his coffee. “They back already?”

Shuffling to the door and onto the front porch, he was greeted by a loud bark of delight from Tuunbaq. Silna unhitched a very large, heavy sled from a very happy dog, and said fluffy white monster raced across the hard-packed snow to greet him.

“Christ!” James stumbled backwards from the weight, nearly falling over before he was able to reorient himself and peer around the blur of fur and claws that was currently trying to lick his face to bits. “Well, what have you brought us today, Tuunbaq? Did your mum catch something good?”

Barking joyfully, the beast raced back to Silna, who was able to have him sit, lie down, and beg for food with three wordless hand motions. Once the tricks were done, she tossed him a scrap of raw meat, and the three hunters carried on with their task.

“White-tailed deer,” explained Goodsir, who was practically glowing with delight as he set down his wrapped bundle. Everyone was flushed red from exertion, even in this bitter cold. “Never heard of them being out this late in the year.”

“Because it’s so warm,” Silna told him with a sigh. “Not good.”

But she seemed pleased with the cache of meat, which had already been field dressed, judging by the look of things. There must have been a hundred pounds at least. Behind them, Francis carried several rabbits tied together on a string, as well as a few other canvas bags.

“Why, it’s Paul Bunyan, come back from the wilderness.” James put a hand over his heart, pretended to wobble on his feet. “A vision of masculinity in flannels.”

“Shut up,” growled Francis, although a smirk danced around one corner of his mouth as he walked over. Something was different about him today; James couldn’t put a finger on it. 

“Feeling better, I see?”

“Yeah,” James answered. “More or less.”

“Good.”

This was all they were able to say to each other before LeVesconte’s voice boomed out across the entire first floor. “Jesus, Sil, I bloody love you.”

##

Later that afternoon, they were ten minutes into the first Captain America movie when James realized Francis had not yet returned from changing into pajamas, and went to check on him. 

He’d been quiet and withdrawn ever since getting back from hunting, which was slightly worrying. But it wasn’t until James saw Francis hunched next to the dresser—one hand braced against the upper drawers and his free hand clenched down at his side—that he realized what was truly wrong. 

Francis was hurt.

“Hey,” said James, low and careful. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Francis waved a dismissive hand, although the pain on his face had not completely dissipated. His voice was hard and flat. “‘m fine.”

“No, you aren’t. I can tell when you’re—hang on. Are you limping?”

Straightening up, Francis glared at him, but he was still unable to put weight on his right leg, thereby proving James’s point.

“What happened? Was this today? Where’s Goodsir? He should—”

“Nothing bloody _happened,_ James. And no. It’s an old injury. I’m really fine.”

“Come off it, Francis.” Walking over, James took Francis’s still-outstretched arm, and carefully eased the man back toward the bed so he could at least sit down and take the weight off his bad limb. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying.” Francis’s face was twisted with pain as he sat down, eyes squeezed shut. “‘m just tired.”

Tentatively, James sat down beside his friend, attempting not to disturb the bed much or shift their combined weight. “Look, I’ve had a fair amount of sports injuries. I can help with this. There’s plenty of things that can bring relief—simple exercises, stretches, massage—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, James, this isn’t a Shanghai bordello. I am not going to let you dig the claws you call fingernails into my shoulders for twenty bloody minutes.”

“First of all, my nails are impeccable, and second, I wouldn’t be digging at your shoulders. Your leg is hurting you, Francis. I can make it feel better. Just let me try.”

Sighing, Francis glanced over at him.

“Please.” James put a hand on Francis’s elbow. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

A long pause. Francis would not quite look at him. “Where was that attitude when you made me look through your goddamn Majorca holiday presentation?”

“Barcelona,” James corrected archly, gesturing down at Francis’s feet as he got up. Stretching, he took off his pajama cardigan and draped it on the closet door hook. “Here. You’ll need to take your shoes and socks off. Roll up your trouser legs.”

Francis made a mutinous face, but did as he was told. While he was occupied, James ducked into the bathroom, selected a nice moisturizing cream from his toiletry bag, and returned with the bottle in hand, offering the pump to Francis so he could test it.

“Here. In case you’re worried you’ll smell like that Shanghai bordello.”

Francis leaned forward and took a tiny sniff. His eyes widened. “Hmph. Not bad, actually.”

“Highest of praises.” James glanced down at Francis’s now-bare feet. “Don’t forget the trouser legs.”

“Yeah. I, ah,” and here, Francis glanced away, “can’t get to that yet.”

Christ. He must be in a world of pain even to admit to that much.

“Hurts all the way down your right leg, then? When you bend forward?”

Francis nodded. “Yeah.”

Maybe it was a hip flexor issue. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll get them, then.” James did not realize how strange it would feel to kneel in front of his friend until he had already dropped to one knee, and the panic in Francis’s blue eyes darkened to a near-animal fear. Without speaking, James averted his gaze to Francis’s trousers, briskly rolling them up into two thick cuffs.

“Actually,” Francis interjected, his voice breaking slightly as James’s fingers accidentally brushed the side of one knee, “can I, ah, lose the trousers? Just stay in shorts?”

The back of James’s neck burned hot, but he tried not to let on that he was blushing as he glanced back up again. “What?”

“Bloody burning up in here. Plus I’d rather not get shit all over these.”

“Washed duck is notoriously tricky to clean,” said James after a second, and sat back on his heels. “Says so in the podcast I listen to.”

“Thought these were just denim.”

“Well, Francis, you are a heathen among men, as I have often told you. But I am willing to help you learn more about the exciting world of today’s modern fashions, if you’re ready to accept my help.”

“Can you help me kill myself before you get to the end of this little presentation?”

Although the tone almost matched their usual arguments, the fact that Francis was slowly pushing his sandstone dungarees down both hips made it all so much more fraught than usual. Not like Francis had ever stood behind his desk and pushed down his trousers while they bitched at each other about course schedules. Not like James had ever been down on his knees in front of the man, on carpet or otherwise. James forced himself not to stare or blush or do anything so stupid as react to such an intimate image.

“No. Then you wouldn’t get to hear about the rest of the cleaning podcast.”

No sooner had Francis opened his mouth to retort than he jerked taut, grabbing his right thigh in one hand and squeezing his eyes shut, clearly bracing himself against a fresh wave of pain.

“Shhh.” James was already in front of him again, easing the trousers down to the floor and casting them aside. He dragged over the desk chair, sat down on it, and propped a pillow on top of his lap. “It’s all right. Just breathe.”

Lying back against the bed with both legs dangling down toward the floor, Francis winced, and clenched his jaw even tighter. “Fucking _hurts_.”

And he’d probably been walking around with his leg in this condition for weeks, making it all the worse, and never saying a damn thing to anyone.

“I know. I’ll help.” Exhaling a shaky breath, James pumped a little lotion into his palms and rubbed them together so they’d be moderately warm before guiding Francis’s left leg into position on the pillow. “I will. Here. Going to start with the good leg first, all right?”

“K.”

“Okay. Good.” He grazed the side of Francis’s left foot with one fingertip. “That’s me. So. Not sure if you’ve ever had a massage before, but you don’t have to talk back to me if you don’t want to. I’m just going to—tell you a bunch of idiotic things as we go, to which you can either listen or not.” No response. “Right. So. We’ll start with the foot, work our way up to the knee, then see about thighs and hips.”

He began to stroke around the perimeter of Francis’s foot, gauging the pressure of his fingers and Francis’s body language as he worked. Despite what he’d said before, James decided it was best not to talk at all, or even think much. He absently studied the fine shape of Francis’s ankles as he gently rotated one foot in a circle, and then began to work each side of his ankle bone with his thumbs, attempting to ease the tension in the lower tendons and leg muscles.

The third time he did this, Francis let out a soft sigh.

James glanced up and saw the man’s eyes were closed. Although Francis was still very tense, he did not seem to be in acute pain anymore.

“Pressure all right?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He kept working, focused on dragging his thumbs up and down the arch of Francis’s foot, from the ball back down to the heel, until Francis made a low humming noise. Without warning, most of the tensed muscles in his calf suddenly loosened under James’s hands. His heel relaxed further into James’s lap.

“There you are.” James felt dazed as he skated his hands up Francis’s now-slick calf, gently kneading long strokes up and down the side of the shin bone. “Relax.”

“‘s nice,” Francis sighed. James’s hands worked through a couple of knots just below the back of his knees. “You’re actually good at this.”

James stifled a grin. “Believe it or not, sometimes it’s true when I say I am good at things.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Francis turned his head to one side, mouth twitching up slightly. He looked so contented that James nearly forgot to keep going, and quickly—reluctantly—returned Francis’s heel to its original position on the pillow before setting the pillow onto the chair and standing up.

“Want a pillow for the hip?” he asked Francis, who squinted open one eye, and shrugged.

“Dunno.”

“Well, I don’t want you to torque it even worse.” James ran a hand through his hair, completely forgetting that it was oily and getting a palm full of grease along his part for his trouble. “Usually you’d lay back across a flat surface, I’d stand above you, and bring your foot up a few inches off the table. Or a mattress, in this case.”

“Right. I’ll, ah. Do that, then.”

Moving backwards on his elbows, Francis eased himself into a supine position; James moved the chair out of the way, and put a bed pillow under Francis’s knees.

“Let me know if that’s not comfortable.”

“Mmph,” said Francis. 

He seemed half-asleep, even with the bad leg propped up, and so James resumed his ministrations. Here, all the tension in Francis’s legs was focused in the tendons and long muscles, probably as a result of tromping around on a painful hip.

“Oh, god,” gasped Francis as James worked a slow path up past his Achilles. 

James froze with both hands gripping Francis’s ankle. “Bad?”

“No. Hurts, but it’s—” another grunt “—good.”

“Right.” James could hardly hear himself over the blood rushing through his ears. “I’ll keep going.”

He increased the pressure of his strokes, letting his slick fingers and palms dig cream and peach streaks into Francis’s supple skin. He had nice skin. Lovely little freckles. And damn fine legs. But that was a dangerous line of thought, because it could lead to—

As James’s fingers moved over a hard knot mid-calf, Francis’s mouth opened in a moan. James glanced up with a sharp intake of breath. Francis was not only more relaxed, but judging by the fit of his shorts, also fairly aroused.

“Still good?” James squeaked out, now very aware that he was also growing hard inside his sweatpants.

“Yeah.”

“‘m glad.” He continued working at the biggest knots, starting with gentle pressure, then offering up a little more force, closer to a Shiatsu, once it was clear Francis was all right. “Where’s the worst pain, then?”

“Hamstring. Above the knee. Mmph.” Francis’s eyes fluttered a little as James ran the heel of his hand up the side of his calf, but he did not open them. “That’s it.”

“Okay.” 

Still holding Francis’s leg, James let his fingers wander past the knee and up the back of a stout, thick thigh, allowing his hands to marvel at the power in these legs as he drew both thumbs down the middle of Francis’s hamstring.

Francis groaned again, low and long. Again. Again.

James repeated this motion until his wrists ached and his fingers felt like clumsy thick claws, but it was worth it, because after possibly five or ten minutes of this, Francis released a deep gust of breath, and his head tipped back against the bed, mouth working in soundless delight. “Oh my god. That’s—”

“All right?”

“ _Jesus_ , yeah.” James increased the pressure. Francis made a feral growl of a sound. “Fuck, that’s it, right there. Oh. Can feel it all the way up my back now. God, I never feel that. No pain at all.”

“You should, Francis.” James was breathing hard, now. “You should be relaxed.”

 _Hips so damn tight, why don’t you take care of yourself, why don’t you let me do this more often?_ He wanted to make a joke of some kind, but he also wanted to keep touching Francis for as long as humanly possible. Never wanted to stop, especially when he sounded like this, all wrecked and breathy and beautiful.

“Fuck, James. Oh, fuck, that’s so good.” And now Francis’s voice had gone high-pitched and desperate. “God, James. James. That’s—oh, _shit,_ James, if you keep on I might—I might—”

“Might?”

Feeling half-drugged, James glanced up, met Francis’s dark, heavy-lidded gaze. His pupils were blown wide in the low light of their table lamp, and suddenly a million little details registered at once: how tightly he was gripping the comforter in two hands. The desperate huff in the back of his throat with each breath. The way his cock strained taut against—

_Might._

Good Christ. Could he come just from this?

“You can,” James whispered, so low it was barely audible. With a small start, he realized he was still holding Francis’s thigh in both hands, and began to caress it again, just like before, with wide, long strokes. “Francis, you can come if you want. Want you to.”

“Fuck,” Francis whimpered. He sucked in a shuddering breath. “Please.” His eyes flew shut again, and a tremor rushed through his entire body.

“Want you to feel good. Want you to feel good,” James repeated, over and over, as if he’d never said any of those words in that order. “Come on. Don’t hold back.”

“Fucking hell.” Francis’s breathing sped up, and he was trembling all over. “James.”

“Yeah. Just like that.”

“ _Please_ don’t stop, that feels so bloody good.”

“I’m not. I’m not.”

“Ah!” Francis clapped one hand over his mouth, whimpering against his palm and tilting his hips up rhythmically as James dragged heated fingers across the back of his right leg, never daring to venture away from the place that made him move like this, sound like this. Fuck, Francis looked so damn beautiful, with a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and his shirt sticking to him in places and that thick cock twitching in his shorts. He was absolutely mouthwatering. 

“Fuck, there, just there, oh my god. Oh, god!”

“Come on. So close.”

“So—Jesus fucking—” Francis’s voice cracked over a low, broken moan; he sucked in a ragged breath. _“Fuck!”_

And he came just like that, putty in James’s hands, gasping and writhing against the bed in his shorts and t-shirt and fucking _Christ_ , James had barely touched him; how could Francis come that hard without even being stroked off? 

James was so dizzy and so painfully hard he barely had the wherewithal to keep standing, keep caressing Francis’s leg as the man shuddered through a hell of a climax. And then suddenly his legs wouldn’t hold him any longer and he was stumbling forward to sit down on the edge of the bed.

_What just happened?_

“James.”

Glancing back, he caught Francis’s eye. Francis grasped for his wrist, and urged James up the bed with that same little wild noise as before. Suddenly they were kissing, open-mouthed, half-clothed, and fully desperate: Francis still on his back, James straddling Francis’s waist with his weight distributed onto his knees, clutching at his middle and rutting against him with abandon as Francis carded both hands through the sides of his hair.

“Oh,” Francis hissed as James bent his head to his neck, bit down at the sensitive muscle at the junction of his shoulder. “Fuck, James, I’m—I’m—” He thrust up again with a full-bodied shudder, then sagged backwards into the bed, utterly boneless.

“Jesus Christ.” James pressed his forehead to Francis’s heaving chest. “Francis, you’re so damn sexy when you—”

“Oi!” A hand smashed against the closed bedroom door several times. The noise startled James upright so quickly he lost his balance and fell sideways off the bed with a horrified yip. “James, are you done with the world’s longest snog yet or not?”

LeVesconte. Damn him to hell and back.

“Dundy, you absolute _fucker.”_ He sat up and flung one dingy trainer at the door in a fit of pique. It thumped against the wood and left a black mark just above the doorknob. “I’m gonna kill you!”

“Captain America’s almost out of cryogenics,” Dundy taunted in a sing-song voice. “And you can’t kill me yet, because Goodsir won’t play the scene till we all come back alive.”

“Go away,” James snapped back. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

James waited until the footsteps had faded before he glanced back up at Francis, who was upright and had moved to the edge of the bed. He was looking down at him with something like concern. “You all right?”

“What? Yeah.” James didn’t know if he should stand up yet. He wasn’t sure if his legs would hold him. “Er. Better not miss the Captain, I suppose.”

“Suppose not.”

“Right.” God, he was such a fucking idiot. He’d let his cock take over at the worst possible time, and now he’d fucked everything up with Francis, probably permanently. “Well. I should, ah. I mean we should both change. Probably.”

“Can’t go out there in this condition, obviously,” said Francis with a tinge of his usual dry humour. “Ought to rinse off.”

James couldn’t help smiling. “Yes. Well. You go first, then. I’ll just—I have to find—my other pajamas. Think they’re down here in the suitcase.”

“If you’re sure,” was all Francis said. He moved to the edge of the bed, got up fairly easily, and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Once James was sure the man wasn’t coming back out anytime soon, he let himself collapse into the floor and put his hands over his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas Eve! To celebrate, I bring you ["a gift real special."](https://open.spotify.com/track/60VtX59NsRINDnObbDtH7G?si=sP-fV7ahQCWcXIR8ob7uVQ) Sing it if you know the words. 😉
> 
> Just imagine Peglar's thermos looks something like [this](https://society6.com/product/chibi-viktor-n_travel-mug?sku=s6-6358533p58a201v703) and you'll get the group joke, he and Bridgens have a cute May/December romance, etc. etc.
> 
> If you are at all curious about the grape seed oil lotion, it's from [Skinfood](https://theskinfood.us/collections/body-cream/products/grape-seed-oil-body-lotion) and it's amazing and I highly recommend, even if it doesn't arrive with sexy massages from hot history professors. ;-)


	6. Chapter 6

Tromping through who-knew-how-many inches of snow on the gravel road leading out to civilization, mobile held aloft in the air in a sad attempt to get reception, Francis had no real idea where he was going. He just had to get out of the bloody house.

He’d tried texting Thomas about what had happened between him and James, but his messages must not have been going through. Which was damned annoying. Francis was about to go stark raving mad.

James had not intended for the massage to turn erotic, that much was certain. He’d blushed and cleared his throat and murmured something about _normal reactions_ every time Francis had tried to apologize about getting hard in the middle of physiotherapy. It had just been so long since someone had touched him. But somewhere along the line, he’d lost control of his own body. His head was filled with a blur of memories involving tongues and lips and hands and James whimpering his name between kisses: _Francis, Francis, you’re so sexy when you’re—_

James couldn’t have meant that. Could he?

“Thomas, you fucking arsehole,” Francis growled to his phone, which had not shown so much as a single text in the fifteen minutes he’d been walking.

Behind him, the roar of tires on gravel made him turn. He was not surprised to see Silna pulling up next to him in her truck. And he was even less surprised when she rolled the window down and called his name to get his attention.

“‘Lo,” was all he said.

She just shook her head, as if this was beyond pitiful. “Get in, idiot.”

Sighing, he did.

They drove for a couple of minutes before reaching the first turn in the road. It wasn’t until they’d reached the two-lane highway that Francis realized he recognized the music that was playing was from the stereo.

_...in your head, in your head, zombie, zombie…._

“Is this—the Cranberries?”

Silna huffed in a way that made it clear this CD did not belong to her. “Harry.”

Ah. Boyfriend’s music in the truck. That made sense. “Yeah, well. Know how that goes. My ex-girlfriend used to adore them. Bands like that were all the rage when we were first going out.” Francis rolled his eyes out the window at nothing except snow. 

“Hmph,” said Silna.

“Just a bunch of pop, isn’t it,” huffed Francis after a long pause. “All sounds the same. Bloody hate it.”

“Mm.”

Ten minutes later, the road had not yet widened, and they still hadn’t encountered another car since the one that had turned off at the tiny one-room post office. The coffee Silna turned out to have been carrying was cold as a brick.

But the CD kept playing, Silna now humming the melody line, and even Francis was speak-singing the words. Still remembered most of them, even.

_“And I’m in so deep…you know I’m such a fool for you…you’ve got me wrapped around your finger….”_

When he realized he was imagining James’s hands on his thighs and James’s voice in his ear, he quickly jabbed at the button to pull up a different song.

“Come on,” protested Silna.

“Sorry. Fuck.” Blanky still hadn’t texted back. Francis’s anxiety was mounting, and the music wasn’t helping. All he could think about was how forlorn James had looked on the floor, after everything had happened, and how much Francis wished he had been able to kiss the pout off James’s face.

“You look like you want to throw yourself out the window.”

“I do not!”

“Yeah, you do. Okay. Just spill it, already. And don’t make me go through the whole _yes, you are; no, I’m not_ bullshit. Tell me what’s wrong or get left on the side of the road.”

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“In case you think I’m joking…” Silna began in a warning voice.

“I know you aren’t. Fuck. All right!” His hand slid up to cover his eyes, and he let out a groan. “James and I aren’t actually dating.”

_“What?”_

“We—made it up. I mean, he invited me here as a friend, because we are friends, and then when everyone thought we were together we just…didn’t say anything to correct them.”

Silna let out a loud, hooting laugh. “What the _fuck,_ dude?”

Haltingly, Francis explained the situation as best as he could. James’s breakup with Paul, who had cheated the whole time they were together, and who obviously deserved to be kicked in the stones until he puked for being so callous. How awful James had felt afterward, and how he’d invited Francis to join him as a friend, but Dundy’s email had given everyone the wrong impression. How Francis had wanted James to have a good time, so he agreed to play the role as best he could. By the time he had brought Silna up to speed on the rest of it, and explained what had happened last night, she was no longer laughing.

“Anyway, so, James was working on my leg, and it—you know, was—relaxing—and I’ll skip ahead from there but suffice it to say we, ah. Did things. Erm. I mean, he did. And then—oh, Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking pogo stick.”

Silna gave him a brief, alarmed look, the first time she’d looked over at him in earnest since they’d gotten to the freeway.

Francis was still reeling. “All I did was kiss him. That was it. Jesus fuck, how stupid can anyone possibly be?”

“You’re freaking out,” noted Silna as they merged right, preparing to exit.

“Of course I’m bloody well freaking out! I mean, when he invited me here I thought we were only going as friends, and that was fine because I didn’t even know we _were_ friends, but apparently we’re _more than that,_ and I don’t know when the hell it could’ve possibly happened, and now I’m facing down two more goddamn weeks of—”

“Okay.” Without further ado, and because they had finally reached a parking lot, Silna whipped left, parked, and turned to face Francis in earnest as she let go of the wheel. “Shut up now. Just shut up.”

Shocked, Francis did.

Silna inhaled, then exhaled, a deep breath before she raised her gaze to his. “Look. You like James.”

Francis opened his mouth to protest, but Silna cut him a glare that said she was nowhere near finished. “Why the hell would you fly four thousand miles on vacation with a guy, and then agree to act like his boyfriend, if you weren’t hoping something would happen? I mean, you ditch all your friends and family before Christmas to hang out with a bunch of idiots you don’t know, but you say you don’t even want to be here? You’re mad because James jerked you off, and all you did was kiss him back? _You’re being a fucking idiot!_ The real reason you kicked up all this shit in your head and tried to _walk back to town_ before the sun came up is because you like him, and you’re fucking _terrified._ And guess what? Everyone’s fucking terrified. That’s what dating is. So shut up, come into the damn grocer’s, and just fucking breathe for once in your goddamn life while we pick up some fucking vegetables. You like James, and he likes you. That’s all that matters.”

Nodding wearily, Francis glanced down at his lap, where his phone had begun buzzing nonstop. According to the notifications, he had forty-three texts and two voicemails from Blanky, twenty texts from Jopson, six from Sophia, and one from his sister about something completely unrelated. Francis swiped that one out of the way before clearing his throat.

“You’re, er, good at that.” He risked a glance to his left. “Talking people off a ledge.”

She hopped down from the driver’s seat before giving him a look that said it should’ve been obvious. “You’ve met Harry.”

“Ah.” He smiled without meaning to. Maybe that was why he and Goodsir got on so well. Two melancholy not-English bastards. “But he’s more cheerful than me. Or he looks it, anyway.”

“Yeah, and if you tell him I said otherwise, you can get fucked.” 

She said it lightly, but Francis was certain she wasn’t kidding.

He ran a hand through the back of his hair before easing out of his seat and stepping down from the truck. “Think we have to bring back vegetables in order to do that.” 

“To do what? Get fucked?” Her expression turned smug as she put her keys in her jacket pocket. “Maybe you do.”

“Arsehole.” But Francis was laughing a little. His phone was still buzzing, and when he looked down, he saw Blanky had already tried to call two more times. “Remind me to text my friend Tom back before we leave, or he’ll think I’ve died in the wilderness.”

“Just get the cart.” 

##

Harry was a bit worried, now.

James had been completely preoccupied with his phone all morning, first checking his voicemails, then his messages, and silently cycling back between all of them for an hour before bringing out some knitting, looking for all the world like an over-caffeinated, neurotic grandparent. Harry knew that Silna had gone out to get John’s eyedrops prescription as well as some veg and a few other things from the grocery store, but no one had seen Francis all morning.

Just as he was about to broach the topic with James, who had inhaled so much coffee it was a wonder he was still standing, the truck pulled into the driveway. Tuunbaq yelped in delight and ran to the door. Within a couple of minutes, Francis and Silna were inside, wiping snow off their boots and carrying several large grocery bags.

Francis deposited his haul onto the counter. “Morning, all,” he said.

Silna gave Harry a knowing look as she passed, communicating to him that something had happened, but they’d talk about it later.

“Francis.” James seemed astounded. “You—went to get groceries?”

“Yeah. Tried to text, but you know how the phones are.” Francis put two cans away in the cupboards and tossed the bags down below the sink. “How—how are things here, then?”

“Er. Fine. Just…catching up on some reading, really.”

Harry cast a confused look at Silna, who motioned him down the hallway to their bedroom. Once there, she took off her Gore-Tex parka, hung it on the hook on the back of the door, and let out a deep sigh before falling face-first onto the bed.

“Men are idiots,” she said as she rolled over.

Harry crawled up beside her and laughed. “I know that. How do _you_ know that?”

She leveled him with a glare that said it should’ve been obvious. “Because I just spent two hours in a truck with James’s boyfriend.”

“Yeah? Should I be jealous?”

“No. He’s so stupid,” Silna huffed, but it was with the fond smile she wore when she watched her baby nephews trying to dance at the interprovincial pow wows. “Likes James a lot, though. Plus I think he’ll empty the traps with me tomorrow.”

Goodsir beamed. “I can sleep in?”

She shoved him in the shoulder in response. Giggling, they rolled sideways along the bed.

##

Francis and James didn’t get a chance to talk until later that night, after the dinner dishes had been washed. Francis fell asleep on the sofa while the group watched _Captain America 2,_ but pretended he had seen every minute. It took James scratching gentle fingers over the back of his scalp and stealing his mound of quilts to persuade him to get off the couch.

By the time James got done in the washroom, the nervousness from the morning was gone. Quietly, he slipped into bed and under the blankets, expecting Francis to be dead to the world. 

Instead, Francis glanced over, and rolled left with a grunt. “You showered?”

“Quick one, yeah. Didn’t bother with the hair, though.”

Francis made an amused noise as his eyes flickered open. “Took ages. Thought you were jerking off.”

James’s first instinct was to turn this into a riotous joke and tell Francis to go to sleep. But he didn’t want to brush off what might be their only chance to talk about what happened yesterday. “Could have done,” he finally admitted. “Kept thinking about you.”

Francis raised a skeptical eyebrow, still lounging against his pillow. “Barely seen anything north of my knees. What’s so bloody hot about that?”

“Good Christ, Francis, don’t be so dense. You can come from just having your thigh rubbed. It’s like a goddamn superpower.”

“Hmph.” Francis’s grin was sweet and wide. “Well, the finish isn’t as good as the wind-up. Maybe….” He trailed off. “Well.”

“What?”

“Maybe you’ve got more talented hands,” murmured Francis, very quietly. One fingertip played over the waistband of James’s pajamas, where the fabric sat low on his hips. Desire pooled in James’s belly as he felt the slightest drag of skin against skin. “D’you have places like that?”

“To make me come? Untouched?” James swallowed hard, biting back a moan. “Erm. Well, I do like—hmm.” Francis’s fingers were now tracing a soft line from the divot of his hip to his abdomen. “That. Though it probably wouldn’t....”

Francis had reached the tie of James’s pajama bottoms, the pad of his thumb swiping over the soft skin of James’s belly. 

James arched into the touch, his head lolling onto Francis’s pillow as he shifted closer. “Feels good.”

“Can I?” asked Francis, barely dipping his hand beneath the elastic.

“ _Christ_ , yes,” James rasped through a laugh. His limbs were shaking. “Cocktease.”

“I don’t.” Francis’s eyes were soft, but his expression glinted with added mischief as he slipped one hand into James’s pajamas, fingers barely brushing against the tip of his cock. “Much.”

James gasped. Francis scooted closer, till his left arm could fit around James’s shoulders. “You’re so hard.” Francis sounded amazed. “Just from this?”

Blushing, James buried his face in Francis’s shoulder, but it only allowed Francis better access, let him grip James’s length in earnest.

“Nnnh.” James shivered all over as Francis stroked him, the touches experimental and slow at first. He _wanted_ so much and Francis smelled like woods and laundry soap and the fact that this was happening again was nothing short of miraculous. “‘s good.”

“Would you really have jerked off thinking about me?” Francis murmured, his breath ghosting hot along James’s ear. 

“Yeah.” James whimpered and bucked up into Francis’s loose fist; Francis made a pleased, breathy noise. “Looked so hot, and _—_ ” Francis’ thumb brushed over the head of his cock, making him gasp. “ _Fuck,_ those thighs.”

Francis exhaled a soft laugh, pressing his lips to James’s temple as he stroked faster. “Thighs?”

“Want to come all over them,” James panted, teeth now nipping at Francis’s lower lip.

Francis pulled back to shove James’s shorts down his hips. Sighing as his cock sprang free from the fabric, James reached for him in kind with shaking fingers, but Francis moved James’s hand before he could touch him. He lifted James’s fingers to his mouth and kissed the back of his knuckles, then gently looped this hand around his waist.

“You first.”

James’s noise of protest turned into a ravenous gasp as Francis palmed him again, leaning in to suck a bruise along the line of his jaw.

Francis let out a low, growling noise, increasing the pace again. “God, I love how loud you are.”

This time, James’s moan caught in his throat. He wanted to say it back, but the only thought in his brain was _faster, faster._ He clung to Francis, whimpering out loud as his body wound even tighter.

“Never shut up on a regular day, so of course you’d be even bloody hotter this way, Jesus Christ.” Francis’s accent was thick and delicious in James’s ear. “So fucking ready for me, hm? Wanna fuck you properly after this, hear all your noises, hear every second of it.”

“Close,” gasped James, with no breath in his lungs and his entire body shaking like a runaway train at full speed. “Oh, Francis, ‘m sorry, ‘m so close, I—”

“Want you there, James.” Francis nipped at his ear; James whimpered and bucked up against the flood of sparks that danced up his spine and between his legs. “Have you come hard as you want, all over the bloody bed and my cock and right between my—”

Biting at the hinge of Francis’s shoulder to hide his groan of pleasure, James shot off all over Francis’s fingers, panting and quivering and hiding his face until his body finally relaxed, and he could roll backwards onto his pillow. 

“God,” he gasped, dragging a palm across his sweaty face. 

Francis pulled his own hand away and licked at messy fingers, tentatively at first, then with a happy, delighted sound, like he was sucking sauce from a half-rack of ribs. 

James thought he might come again just from seeing it. “H-holy shit, _Francis_.”

Francis raised an eyebrow at him, now drawing soft circles along James’s chest with damp fingers as James’s breathing slowly went back to normal. “All right?”

James rolled over and yanked at Francis’s waistband. “‘M gonna—just—blow your fucking cock off,” he slurred.

Francis cackled in delight.

##

Dead leaves crunched under hard-soled boots as someone approached the low-burning fire. Curious to see who was still awake at this time of night, John Bridgens glanced away from the hypnotizing dance of the flames. Although it took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness, he grinned when he saw Peglar stepping out of the shadow of the house.

Henry bent to kiss him. “Hi,” he said, grinning. “Nice night.”

When they broke apart, Bridgens pressed a second, more chaste kiss into short hair as his husband sat down on the other side of the bench. “Thought you were gonna try and sleep, eh?”

“Yeah, well, I was,” said Henry with a laugh, moving closer. “But _someone_ thought it was the perfect time for a shag, apparently. Couldn’t have slept through that racket if I’d been dead and buried.”

Bridgens raised both eyebrows. Silna and Harry were always discreet; he didn’t think he’d even seen the pair of them kiss outside of New Year’s celebrations. Which left only one other couple as the amorous pair in question. Two very vocal people who were sharing a wall with their current bedroom.

“Well, I think it’s sweet they’re so keen on each other.” John squeezed Henry’s knee. Henry made an amused noise.

“Don’t think sweet’s the right word for it, mind. James’s so bloody loud you’d think _Francis_ had posed in all those fashion mags.”

“Ooof.” John swatted playfully at a flannel-clad hip. “Cattier than my sister, you are.”

Giggling, Henry snuggled closer under John’s thick fur blanket till he had both arms wrapped around John’s chest, and John could sling an arm around his lean shoulders. “Well, I‘m glad you’re out here to cuddle by the fire, and not her.”

John couldn’t help but laugh at that, too. “Too right.”

They fell silent for a few minutes, listening to the soft crackle of the fire and the whirr of the breeze through ridges of trees and rocks, enjoying the closeness and warmth that came with sitting out there together.

“Beautiful skies tonight, hm?” John said after a while.

“Yeah.” Peglar let out a happy sigh before squinting up into the expanse of glittering blue-black above them. “Can you see the Milky Way all right, all that the fog coming in?”

“Well enough,” answered John, tipping his chin toward the ten o’clock position, where cirrus clouds hadn’t obscured the stars so much. “About half. Plus, Cassiopeia’s out, just there. Bit of Draco above, with the little sparkle of Kemble’s Cascade.”

“And Polaris, just nearby.” Henry added.

“Well spotted, love,” John said. He pressed his forehead against Henry’s slightly-chilled ear, delighted that his husband was getting so good at this. “Plus a bit of Cepheus right between them, you see?”

“Yeah.” Henry sighed, burrowing closer to John under the soft furs. “But I know who I’d rather have between me, eh?”

“Ooh, look who’s talking filthy now.” John allowed one hand to wander toward Henry’s pert little arse. He was probably teasing, but John gave the firm round muscle a little squeeze anyway. “Need me to warm you up?”

Henry hummed in delight, and snuggled closer. “Let’s just look a bit longer. I like being out here.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Come on, Francis!” James’ voice echoed down the hall as Francis walked toward the kitchen, wearing only a t-shirt and nothing else. “I am  _ hard  _ and  _ waiting _ in here, you absolute madman!”

“Yeah, and we’ve still got another hour till everyone—aah! Fucking hell!”

Rounding the corner, Francis let out a strangled cry and nearly leapt out of his skin as he caught the eye of a strange woman in a black sweater dress, who was standing behind the kitchen counter and drinking a glass of water. Horrified, he darted for the safety of the dining table, crouching down behind one of the beige vinyl-backed chairs. This tragically failed to turn him invisible.

“Wow. You are, ah, really naked,” the woman commented, tucking a strand of dark curly hair behind her ear before opening one of the upper drawers. She was very tactfully not looking at him. “Want an apron or something?”

Although he was still pretending not to exist, Francis caught the ball of fabric she tossed toward him and looped the ties around his neck and waist as quickly as possible.

Several questions were answered simultaneously when LeVesconte popped in through the door, carrying a large purple suitcase and beaming like he’d just won the lottery. “Crozier! You and James cooking something? Dinner’s in an hour.” 

“Er,” said Francis, and blushed even redder.

The woman gave LeVesconte a fond, knowing smile. “Think they were having a bit of a benjo, babe.”

Francis pretended not to see the way she winked at him after she said this.

Henry just laughed as he disappeared down the hall with the purple suitcase. “Heh! Nice.”

Sighing, she put down her glass of water and stepped away from the counter. Francis could now clearly see her round belly poking out from an otherwise-slight frame. “I’d shake your hand,” she said with a grin, “but you’d probably rather not. Anyway, I’m Meera, Henry’s wife. And as you can see, I’m extremely pregnant.”

“Yeah,” said Francis, like an utter idiot. “I, ah, gathered that.”

She just smiled. “Guessing you’re James’s boyfriend?”

He blushed all the way up to his ears. “Yeah, er. Suppose so.”

Her smile became a smirk. “You aren’t sure?”

Down the hall, James was swearing at Dundy fairly vehemently. Meera pursed her mouth like she was trying not to laugh and gave Francis a knowing look. “Well, as you can tell, they’re both morons. But they’ve got good hearts.”

As LeVesconte returned to the kitchen, sans suitcase this time, she put a hand on his bicep. “Hey. Find me an aspirin and that long pillow thing out of the carry-on bag?”

“Course,” said Dundy, and kissed her cheek. “Be right back.”

“I love a man who can take directions,” Meera sighed once Henry had disappeared into their room. “Although if he or James makes me fly anywhere else in the next eight weeks, I’m gonna beat them both to death with a parenting book.”

“How’d they convince you?”

“Well, I heard the words  _ Fitzjames _ ,  _ Canada _ , and  _ Carnivale _ , so I figured someone sensible would need to come and make sure they didn’t burn the continent down.”

“Jesus Christ.” Francis laughed despite himself. “Sounds about right.”

Dundy returned from the back bedroom holding a pink floral-print mug in one hand and two aspirin balanced in an open palm. He handed both to his wife, who kissed him, and then sailed into the living room, flopping down onto the sofa with a satisfied noise.

They both heard the sound of a biscuit tin opening before anyone spoke again.

“What about you? How’d you get roped in?” Meera asked from behind the rim of her mug. It read  _ Eat a bag of dicks  _ in loopy black script.

“Er.” Now trying to inch backwards toward the nearest wall, still very aware that he was half-naked beneath the apron, Francis made an embarrassed noise. “The, ah, chocolate-chip cookies definitely helped.”

“Bribery is one of James’s best moves.”

“No, it isn’t,” came an imperious voice from the hallway. When Francis looked over, James had finally appeared, elegant and rumpled in a black-and-gold silk robe that Francis did not remember putting in that bloody big suitcase. Although he had tied it, the robe hung open loosely in the front, showcasing the pale planes of James’s chest and shadowing the expanse of lean stomach that plunged beneath the fabric. When James saw Francis staring, his smile became a knowing smirk. “Lovely to see you, Em. Good flight? All well?”

“Yep.”

“Fantastic. Stealing this one back now.” James’s fingers closed around Francis’s wrist, then pulled him forwards. Francis meant to say something along the lines of  _ you can’t steal me  _ or  _ what if I’m fine,  _ but his mouth refused to cooperate. And when he saw the heated look James was slanting him over one bare shoulder, Francis’s thoughts just swirled into a delicious medley of half-naked James framed in the low light of their table lamp, James under him, James on top of him making that high-pitched noise in the back of his throat....

Meera was still laughing, the sound warm and distant now. Last thing Francis heard from the outer room was a wry, low: “Well, babe, if you want a handjob, I guess now’s the time.”

Dundy sounded amazed. “Can I keep the gingerbreads during?”

And then James shut the bedroom door by pinning Francis’s back against it, and Francis rightly stopped caring about anything beyond pulling that silk robe right off James’s body and marking every bit of his neck that he could reach as they stumbled back to the bed.

##

“Mmph. Babe, these are th’ best thing ‘v’ever had.”

“Right?” Sitting on the sofa with his wife’s feet in his lap, a blanket spread over them both, and four open treat tins balanced between them, Dundy was as happy as a horse. “Fucking amazing….Hang on, d’you have the shortbreads or the jam squares?”

“Bof.” Em shielded her mouth with one hand as she talked, gesturing to the tin nearest her elbow. “Good together.”

“Shit, I didn’t even  _ think  _ of that. Brilliant. Give us a bite?”

She pushed one of each pastry into his outstretched palm, then dug into the biggest tin, coming up with a fistful of party mix. Demurely, she ate a couple of mini pretzel rods that were sticking out from her fingers, then started in on the rest, crunching down on two garlic rye pieces with a delighted noise.

“Dunno whether to kiss Bridgens or kill him,” she told Dundy after a couple of minutes. He was sucking the last of the jam from one thumb. Raspberry. Best ones of the batch, to be honest. “Mmph. Remind me to get the recipe for this later. Baby’s so happy she’s doing flips.”

“Bet we could make it at home, yeah.” Dundy reckoned he could toast some stuff in the oven, if it came to it. “Need anything else?”

“Just you,” she answered, and patted his cheek with salt-tipped fingers as he leaned in. “Although I wouldn’t turn down some of those gingerbreads, to be honest. Or a ham sandwich. But, like, a little one. It’s mainly for her.” She pointed at her blanket-covered stomach with a cute and pouting look.

Reaching to his right, Dundy handed over the tin he’d been eating from earlier. “Start with the gingerbread and work our way there?”

Meera’s eyes lit up like he’d just given her a diamond. “God, I fucking love you.”

“That’s my girl.”

She shook her head. “Think that honor goes to Cleo.”

Grinning, he palmed the top of Meera’s belly before nuzzling closer with a fake purr-growl noise, pretending to bite down in several places as his wife laughed and yelped and tugged at his hair. Tiny bits of shortbread smashed against his face and trailed down the collar of his shirt before he finally sat up. 

Eh. Worth it.   
  


Five minutes into that night’s movie, Harry got up from the couch, fixing Silna with a puzzled glance as he shook out the thin blanket, swiped a palm across the cushions a few times, and then sat back down. “Did someone upend the biscuits directly onto the sofa?”

Silna raised an eyebrow, but reluctantly paused the movie. “You’ve seen Dundy eat.”

“He’s not that bad.” Goodsir had already found the dustbuster and brought it back over to the couch. “Plus, Meera’s here now. Doubt she’s gonna sit around and watch him shove biscuits into his mouth all day.”

“She’s pregnant as fuck. She gets to do whatever she wants.”

“Well, yes, but….” Goodsir couldn’t help but laugh at the glare Silna was giving him. “You’re right. I’m saying you’re right. But I also don’t think they give us the deposit back if we start an ant colony inside the house.”

“Just shut up and vacuum so we can finish watching Kate Winslet and Jack Black find love.”

“Oh, well, in  _ that _ case….”


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Christmas Eve arrived, Francis couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so excited for the holiday. Or any holiday. Maybe it was the fact that he and James were carrying on like rabbits at night and stealing kisses during the day instead of decking each other in the noses the way he’d originally imagined. Or maybe it was the fact that Bridgens kept a pan of apple cider on the stove and treats in the oven at all times. Either way, he was enjoying himself immensely, and had gained something like five pounds already.

His good cheer was also tied to the fact that he had a real present for James at last.

Originally, when this entire enterprise started, Francis had debated over the subject of presents before deciding on a very practical one: a pocket knife. It wasn’t flash or pretty, but it was a safe choice as a Christmas present for a friend, especially if that friend was the generous sort who was taking you on an international holiday. Plus there was very little chance James already had one, all things considered.

Then they’d started sleeping together, and he’d absolutely-bloody-panicked, and done something rash on the weekend he and Silna had first gone into town.

Holding the palm-sized black box in both hands, wondering when he’d have time to wrap this before tomorrow morning, Francis took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Outside their room, the rest of the group was having a wreath-making competition with some branches they’d cut from a nearby spruce.  _ Blue Christmas  _ was blaring on the record player, Bridgens was baking again, and judging by the screams of frustration from a half-drunk Dundy, the crafting competition was fierce.

He’d no sooner decided to put the gift back into the top dresser drawer when James sailed into the room, shoving the door closed behind him with a foot. He looked mutinous as he marched into the washroom and turned the tap on. “Ugh! You’ll never believe what’s happened.”

Francis pictured Goodsir trying to wield glitter and paste simultaneously and showering the table in sparkle dust. “Well, you’re washing your hands, so I’m going to guess… horrible paste accident?”

“No,” corrected James over the noise of the tap. Francis heard him scrubbing vigorously at skin and nails with a tiny bristled brush. Must have been a catastrophe, then. “The india ink marker I was using for calligraphy burst all over my Christmas drawing, just as I was putting in the last of the mistletoe! And of course, all the ink mixed with the sap that was already on my fingers, and suffice it to say I will not be placing in this year’s holiday-themed art show. Good Christ.”

Still hidden behind the half-open door, he shut off the tap, and dried his hands. 

Francis was still stuck on one particular detail. “Why would you  _ need _ to do a painting for a wreath-making competition?”

“Oh, Francis, you ask that  _ so _ innocently, but I know you’re going to regret hearing the details by the time I’m finished.” James smiled at him in a soft way as he opened the door. His eyes immediately flew to the unwrapped box in Francis’s hands. “What is  _ that? _ ”

“Nothing.”

Francis shoved the box behind him, but it was too late. A hopeful light had entered James’s face as he asked, “Are we exchanging gifts now?”

“Yeah,” Francis admitted. “Erm. That is, if you’ve got a few minutes.”

James winked at him as he went to his side of the bed, rummaged underneath the frame, and came up holding a very lumpy wrapped package. “Think I can spare a few for presents, yes.”

He came to sit next to Francis, who had already retrieved the second gift from his suitcase. The pocket knife was in a canvas grocery bag he’d used when he bought it at the hardware store, and he held this plain package out rather sheepishly. James took it, frowning in a puzzled way as Francis continued, “I, ah. Got you two things. One’s just useful and the other’s…I mean, I hope you like them. If not, the receipts are still down in there somewhere.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry. Just, ah….”

Quietly, James reached into the bag and produced the small silver knife, turning it over in both hands before opening the blade and examining it carefully. Francis had got him the nice tiger-eye handle instead of plain metal or the dark leather. He’d even had the blade initialed. Hardware-store Jim was running a special on engravings and the key machine had been down.

“I like the design,” he said after a long moment. “Pretty.”

Francis exhaled in relief.

Closing the knife, drawing the folded handle into the curve of his palm for a moment, James reached back down into the canvas bag, where Francis had hastily shoved the black box from before. His eyebrows lifted when he pulled this gift out, but he didn’t toss off a sly comment, or make fun of Francis for forgetting to wrap it in nice paper.

When he opened the box, he didn’t seem to know what he was looking for, at first. Francis tracked every twitch of James’s face with eager eyes, so he was able to see when the penny dropped. James’s eyes widened, he gasped, and yanked the round medal out of its box to examine it close-up. Mouth slightly open, he turned it over and over in his hands before speaking again. “Good Christ, Francis, what did you  _ do? _ ”

The woman at the trophy store had seemed excited to make a medal that wasn’t for a child’s karate tournament or a terrible work outing. Francis had asked her to base the design on the first Olympics medals from 1892, since that was about as Ancient Greece-related as you could get. It was a small, disc-shaped medal with the goddess Nike carved on the front. Below the image of Nike, he’d got the year written out in Roman numerals, as well as  _ The James Fitzjames Carnivale Games _ , and on the back, he’d put down the name of the “host” country.

James hugged the medal to his chest with both hands. A few small tears streaked down his sharp cheeks.

_ Oh, no. _

“If you don’t care for it….” Francis began, but was cut off by James pulling him into a messy, fairly heated kiss. “Mmph!”

After a long moment, James pulled away, squeezing one of Francis’s hands before he drew back and swiped at his own eyes with his sleeve. “Well. Sorry. Didn’t mean to get choked up there. But it’s—this is amazing, Francis. Really,  _ really _ lovely.” He cleared his throat as he passed a rumpled, bow-topped package to Francis in return. “Afraid mine’ll seem a bit silly by comparison, since it’s not store-bought. Just don’t toss me into a snowbank or anything. I can always find you something better once we return to civilization.”

Frowning as he ripped into the package, Francis was about to protest the idea of James as a shit gift-giver when a folded length of warm red-and-gold wool tumbled into his lap. Unwinding this, he discovered it was a red-and-gold striped scarf, a matching hat, and a pair of black fingerless gloves. Francis opened his mouth to ask  _ why  _ just as he saw the herald crest embroidered into one end of the scarf.

“Jesus. That’s the arms of deBurgh.” He yanked the other tail forward so he could compare them. “And the Ulster flag. Fucking hell. How did you even make all of this without me seeing you?”

Every detail was perfect, or looked it, anyway.

“Oh. I’ve, er, got a machine for the embroidery. So that wasn’t the difficult part.” James bit his lip to hide a smile. “Did the majority of the scarf and gloves before we left. And then I had to finish the hat while you were out hunting. You can tell because the stitches are all crooked at the top.”

“I can’t tell that,” Francis argued, and jammed the beanie onto his head to prove it. 

“Well. Hope it’s all right. I was going to put the Second Earl of Moira’s shield on it, since you were named after him, but I couldn’t find one high-res enough to work in the machine.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Francis blushed as he met James’s eyes. “Didn’t know you knew that.”

He couldn’t remember ever mentioning such a thing to James. Sounded more like a topic he’d have been forced to discuss with John Franklin, being honest.

James waved a laconic hand through the air. “It’s really nothing, Francis. What you ought to do is hand me those back and let me get you something good. I mean, all I’ve done is brought you a bundle of yarn. You gave me a  _ medal. _ ”

“Yeah, and it’ll do a shit job of keeping me warm while Dundy hogs that chair by the fire, let me tell you.” Francis looped the scarf around his neck, and pulled on both gloves with a satisfied noise. “There. Now you can’t ever take them back.”

Laughing softly, James reached out and adjusted the tails of the scarf so they hung evenly in front. As nimble fingers tucked the soft yarn around his neck into a more pleasing shape, Francis had the fleeting thought that every Christmas could be like this, if he wanted—could feature a laughing James carefully fixing Francis’s crooked scarf or tie or shirt collar before they went out to some holiday party or other. He thought about all the evenings James might do this for him again, if they genuinely were dating, and for a moment he wanted it so much that his heart stuttered painfully in his chest.

Just as soon as Francis opened his mouth to voice some version of this thought, or maybe just to make a joke, James pressed the flat of his palms against the now-fixed scarf. His fingers curled pleasantly against Francis’s shoulders as he plucked a few bits of stray lint from his pajama top. 

“Happy Christmas, Francis,” he murmured.

Francis took James’s hands in his, kissed the tips of those crafty fingers, and pulled him in again for a real kiss. “And to you, James.”

##

Wearing a red paper crown leftover from the Christmas crackers and a tiny pair of neon-green sunglasses that were clearly designed for a child of five or six, Dundy had gathered them all around the hearth for the last event of Carnivale. “All right, judges. You have your official voting machines—” slips of old construction paper and a few ancient milky gel pens—”and now the finalists are in. I am proud to present the last and only event I was allowed to organize for this year’s Carnivale! Welcome once again to Canada’s Worst Home Videos.”

Next to Francis, James was mouthing all the words to Dundy’s speech, confirming what Francis suspected: that this was probably a very long-winded script.

“James gave me a bunch of patter to read about tradition and honor and art, but I’m gonna skip those bits, because we ought to let the entries speak for themselves. Now! Presenting last year’s winner, and the winner from the year before that,  _ and  _ the winner from the year before that, the Meryl Streep of Instagram sensations, our very own Silna in: Star Wars Kalvak Kid.”

A yellow-parka-wearing Silna appeared on the screen, standing outside some public building in a skiff of snow, trying to slap a low-hanging disco ball with a plastic lightsaber while wearing an equally-cheap stormtrooper helmet. Dundy had definitely dubbed in the lightsaber effects and the John Williams score, but Francis still laughed. And, more importantly, so did Silna. Once it was over, she merely held up her plastic knife in invitation, as if inviting Dundy to a lightsaber duel. Their duel lasted for all of thirty seconds until Dundy’s knife broke on a failed parry, so he conceded defeat from the floor while introducing the next video. 

When the bagpipe music started, Francis knew this had to involve Goodsir. It was a surreptitiously-filmed video of Harry dancing a surprisingly-decent Scottish jig at an outdoor concert. Behind the camera, Silna was cheering him on, while other concertgoers were laughing and clapping along with the rollicking band. When the drums stopped playing, Harry, snickering in self-conciousness, turned to face the camera, and said, “Fuck. You’re gonna send that to Dundy this year, aren’t you?”

“Definitely not,” came Silna’s innocent voice as the video ended.

Dundy let them cheer for several seconds before holding his hand up for quiet. “All right! Now, we have a choice. We can either watch mine, which I think is titled…?”

“Sad Man on Vacation Drops Four-Scoop Ice Cream,” answered Meera.

“Oh, right! Fuck, that  _ was _ sad. Or! A Disney-themed karaoke performance by Bridgens and Peglar. Disney property unknown.”

A horrible thought occurred to Francis. Quickly, he turned to James, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Hang on, you didn’t send in any awful videos of me, did you?”

“No. I don’t even know what mine is, to be honest. Dundy said he’d found it on the uni website.”

“... _ Or,  _ my personal favourite, a video I like to call  _ James Fitzjames’s Grey Cup Halftime Show,  _ otherwise known as  _ Fitzchella, Episode One _ — _ ” _

“Good Christ.” In stark contrast to the languid way everyone else was draped over sofas, chairs, and parts of the floor, James had gone rigid in his seat. He was casting very nervous glances at LeVesconte and Peglar. “Dundy, tell me this isn’t the one I think.”

“Oi! Don’t go spoiling it for the judges, all right? Anyway, it’s the only one I could find where you keep most of your clothes on.”

Francis glanced at James again. “What is he talking about?”

James hid his face in both hands, clearly agitated. “Dundy, I’m really not kidding, please tell me you—oh, fuck.  _ Fuck. _ ” Dundy had already pressed play.

Turning toward the screen, Francis saw the familiar stage of Cracroft Auditorium, the claustrophobic, old-fashioned theater where the history department held all their end-of-year ceremonies. He was a bit surprised to see an elfin-looking Thomas Jopson pop in front of the camera and wave sheepishly to the lens while showing off two giant foam feet and a long green cloak, but less so once the camera panned out to reveal Sir John in a houndstooth cape and deerstalker, as well as John Irving dressed as a Biblical figure, complete with the long fake beard and brown tunic. It was some kind of Halloween gathering,with a bunch of faculty members sitting at a folding table, including—he realized with a jolt—himself. At least he wasn’t in costume. “Augh. Has my hair always looked like that in the back?”

On-screen, the camera position had moved to the end of the folding table with all the faculty. Francis heard Little’s dull whisper from behind the camera, and Jopson’s calm, cheerful answer from off to one side.

“Doctor Crozier,” Jopson was saying quietly to Francis on-screen. He handed off a battered metal water bottle that was likely filled with tea and whiskey. “I think once Sir John goes up, and the rest of the faculty performances are done, we’ll be able to serve the rest of the pasta—”

“Jopson, you  _ know  _ I won’t feel like eating after this,” Francis growled. “Not after watching this bl…oh, Christ, here we go.”

Sir John had arrived at the podium, papers in hand, clearly ready to give an introduction. As he thanked the usual bigwigs, a line of students with brass instruments and snare drums filed in from the side, and were now standing just below the stage.

“Why do I not remember this?” Francis asked aloud. “James, when did we ever have a Halloween event?”

“Nnnnh,” responded James beside him, still hiding his face.

Frowning, Francis turned back to the screen, where Sir John had finished thanking every bloody lord known to mankind and was introducing the main event. 

“Now! Those of us in the Department of History may recognize our next guest, Doctor James Fitzjames, as our esteemed Barrow Foundation Faculty-in-Residence. I would be remiss not to inform you that Doctor Fitzjames received his first-class bachelor’s in education from the University of Hertfordshire, went on to achieve a double-first Master of Studies in Grecian History at the University of Oxford, and culminated his student career by being awarded a congratulatory-first Doctorate of Philosophy in Ancient History from that same institution.” 

Smiling broadly through the polite applause, Sir John pursed his mouth in a familiar way. With a start, Francis remembered that this had been Franklin’s  _ attempting-a-joke  _ face. 

“And I have been  _ asked  _ to inform you that he could not have accomplished today’s performance without assistance from our Franklin University marching band. Apparently, they are taking a few cues from the other side of the pond for this particular musical number!” A long, pregnant pause; he clearly thought this would generate more laughter than it did. “Well, then, without further ado, I present Doctor James Fitzjames, in  _ A Tale of Beleaguered Teaching Assistants!” _

Someone dimmed the lights. The velvet curtain opened, now showcasing a several-years-younger James in the middle of the stage, sitting primly at a folding table and wearing a blazer-over-university-hoodie combination. As the spotlight came up, Francis saw a large stack of papers next to James, which he was ostensibly grading. On the other side stood a very young-looking Graham Gore. Gore held a clipboard and was pretending to scribble frantically on it with a pencil.

_ “Hit me!”  _ called a voice over the loudspeaker.

Behind Francis, Meera gasped. “Oh, my god, that’s from Destiny’s Child.”

And the drum beat pounded. Snare drums rattled, brass horns blared, and the James on-screen took a fistful of his faux-graded papers and tossed them into the air. Cream-colored pages swirled around him like large pieces of confetti as he strode forward to center stage and shed his blazer. Graham trailed behind him, feigning clownish panic, trying to catch everything in outrageously wide-open hands as James strolled to his mark, and began to dance, fluid and fast.

The vocals kicked in:

_ Can you keep up?  _

_ Baby boy, make me lose my breath _

_ Bring the noise, make me lose my breath _

_ Hit me hard, make me lose my _ —

A flurry of dancers dressed as nervous TAs joined James on stage and began a very complex choreographed dance of their own. 

“Oh, shit,” the cameraman—Edward?—murmured, struggling to keep the dancers in frame.

James strutted forward, paused at center-stage with his hands on his hips, and promptly whisked off his suit trousers in one swift motion, revealing a pair of thigh-length bike shorts underneath.

From the audience, the screaming got louder and more raucous.

“Was that Velcro, do you think?” came Jopson’s voice from one side of the camera, far too loud, followed by an inaudible response.

As James reached the top of the stage and the horns blared again, he posed, slowly jutting his hips left and then right, pressing a corresponding hand to his hip each time. Pausing only to grab his discarded trousers off the stage, he feigned a coy look over his shoulder, then tossed the trousers in a long arc toward the middle of the faculty table. 

“Look at Crozier!” someone hissed on the tape. “Jesus.”

James's trousers had landed directly in front of the staff table. The camera panned right, framing Sir John's constipated smile and the senior Barrow's horrified look, and then came to rest on Francis, who was staring up at James on stage as if they'd never met before: wide-eyed and with his mouth hanging open as ruddy shock crept up his face.

Just as suddenly, the tape clicked off.

Dundy yelped and whirled to glare at the culprit. “Why’d you—oh.”

Francis followed his gaze, meeting Meera’s unamused stare as she gestured toward the TV with the remote, and then around the room. “See what happened, genius?”

Blinking, Francis realized James was no longer sitting next to him. Beyond the other end of the kitchen, the front door was slightly open. “Shit.” He pushed to his feet. “Oh, shit,  _ James. _ Come on!” 

Stalking toward the back bedroom, Francis pulled on his outer layers as quickly as possible. Out in the living room, Dundy was babbling something in a high-pitched voice. If James had gone outside in this cold in nothing more than pajamas, he’d come down with pneumonia in ten minutes.

Stepping back outside, Francis nearly ran into Silna, who shoved a small pack into his hands. Inside there was a lantern, a small thermos, and a pouch of some sort of trail mix. “Thanks,” he managed.

“Want me to go with you?” she asked.

“No.” Francis looped the pack over both shoulders. “But if I’m not back in a couple of hours--”

“You will be,” she told him, and patted his shoulder a couple of times, the way Francis was certain she would pet a particularly large, anxious dog. Said dog was currently hiding in the hallway behind her, clutching a tiny stuffed bear in its mouth. “Don’t freak out, all right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song James is dancing to is the inappropriate-for-collegiate-potlucks but general banger [Lose My Breath](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqeIiF0DlTg).


	9. Chapter 9

Francis checked the car, the basement, and the firepit before he spotted James’s tracks in the snow at the mouth of the trail that led down to the lake. He adjusted the pack on his shoulders and followed. Likely wouldn’t need anything in it, but it was kind of Silna to put something together for him so quickly.

He found James sitting on the edge of the small wooden pier and staring out at the frozen water. Francis walked up and sat down next to him, ignoring the way the uneven planks dug into the thin material of his pajama bottoms.

“Not cold, are you?” he offered first.

James shrugged.

“Here.” Francis pulled off his pack and gave James the jacket he was wearing. James took it, although he didn’t say anything. “Can’t have you catching cold.”

They watched light glisten across the ice for a moment, listening to the soft shirr of the wind stirring snow and ice through the trees.

“I’m sorry,” James finally said, quiet. “Didn’t know Dundy was going to show that. If I had, I’d have…well. Said something. I know you don’t like being teased.”

“ _ Me _ ? S’pose it wasn’t my best angle, all things considered, but I’m not—no apologies are needed, James.”

James made a frustrated noise. His forehead creased in confusion. “Right. I’m sure you  _ really _ aren’t angry with me at all. Everything’s just peachy.”

“Should I be upset?”

“Come on, Francis. I’ve seen the end of that clip a half-dozen times. I finish that stupid dance number, Sir John comes back on the microphone with terrible patter about  _ young professors  _ and  _ joie de vivre,  _ and you spend the rest of the video eviscerating me to poor Jopson.” James made a pleading face. “Surely you’d be furious as well, if we traded places.”

“Look. James, I honestly don’t remember any of that.” Francis cast his mind back; if he thought hard, he could recall similar faculty events, with James in various costumes, but none like the one they’d just seen. “And I hate to be the person to tell you, but what I saw on that tape confirmed everything I know now.”

James’s eyes widened, and Francis grasped for his hand without thinking, squeezing it between both of his in reassurance. “I mean about  _ me _ . The man on that tape was bloody awful to you, for no real reason save drunken spite. And all I can say is that at the time, I—I had made a great many assumptions about you. We can agree they were unfair in retrospect.”

“Can we?”

“Didn’t you see my face on the tape as you were up there performing? For Christ’s sake, I look like I’ve been stabbed by a damn army of Cupids.”

James let out a nervous laugh.

“Plus I was gulping whiskey out of that thermos,” murmured Francis with a pained noise, “which is another reason I ought to apologize. I’d no cause to be so awful to you, whatever the occasion.”

“Francis, it—” James took a deep breath, glanced sideways at the icy surface of the frozen lake. “It isn’t about what you said, it’s that you weren’t wrong. I did act like a pompous idiot back then. Christ. Still do, really. You know I’m not the person everyone thinks, with the titles and the fancy degrees. I’m just a man with halfway decent connections, who—who faked a C.V. to get this teaching post. Not all of it, mind, just—I was one credit shy of my bachelor’s when I was hired. Had to drop out in the middle of my last term because I couldn’t pay for it anymore. And I’d already been accepted for graduate study. They didn’t check the paperwork.”

“I didn’t know that.”

James sniffed loudly. Water glistened in his eyes. “Well, I’ve finished it now. But at the time I was trying to get through my masters, and then my DPhil, and I was utterly frantic. Couldn’t bear anyone finding out. And then, my fourth year of post-grad, in between Hilary and Trinity term, I went to a Pride festival in Barcelona. Ended up saving a boy named George Barrow from a very large scandal.” He caught Francis’s knowing look and nodded. “Yeah.  _ That _ Barrow. Afterwards, no one ever asked about my qualifications. Even during my defense, they gave me ridiculously easy questions, and spent most of it talking about how much they’d enjoyed my papers. Whole committee just stood up and clapped at the end, as if it were some incredible honor to pass me through with barely any effort.”

“They wouldn’t have applauded you for being mediocre,” Francis pointed out. “I’m positive you were outstanding even then.”

James shrugged off the compliment. “I was so relieved not to fail, and to be able to start my career, that I just...let them.”

“That only makes you human.”

“Makes me a fraud.” James looked back out across the pier. “After Franklin hired me on, I’d see you in staff meetings, sitting across the table with all your research and incredible field studies, and I just  _ knew _ you knew, Francis. You saw through me from the start.”

Francis squeezed his hand again. “But I didn’t know you.”

“Now you do.”

“Yes,” Francis said, using their joined hands to draw James closer—to get James to look at him— “and now I can tell you how much I admire that kind of courage. Determination. Honesty. All of those are worthy qualities in a professor, James. And in a friend.”

Silent tears streamed down James’s face. “But you’re not only my friend, are you? All things considered, we’re more than that. Least, I, ah, want you to be more than that.”

“Are you asking if I  _ like _ you? Hm?” Francis cupped his face in one hand. “I hope you know my feelings, James.”

The answering smile was weak, but genuine.

“If not, it may make the rest of our couples’ holiday a bit awkward.”

James shoved him in the shoulder with a ragged gasp of a laugh. “Christ. All right.”

“Probably wouldn’t shag someone I didn’t fancy. Or fly to Canada with them. Or watch them dance around in short pants for half the holiday.”

“Fuck off,” huffed James, but he was grinning, now, and he folded forward into Francis’s arms like he belonged there, nestling his head against Francis’s shoulder. “That scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” muttered Francis, dropping a kiss into James’s hair. Although the wind on the pier was biting, he was starting to warm up. “S’pose you’re stuck with me, then, hm?”

“Yeah,” James cuddled closer, winding both arms around Francis’s neck. He was practically sitting in Francis’s lap. “Now  _ you’re _ my idiot boyfriend. How does it feel?”

Laughing, Francis ducked his head, and met James’s upturned gaze with a smirk of his own before he leaned in, caressing James’s mouth with the pad of one thumb as he whispered, “Better than I ever imagined.”

##

As penance for being a total prat, Dundy showed them all a video from his backup drive titled  _ Cleopatra vs. Man.  _ After watching an early-aughts Dundy—wearing a mesh shirt, pale capris, and sporting frosted tips in his grey-streaked hair—try to reason with, and promptly flee from, the full-grown cheetah that they had tried to raise on their houseboat for a year, James felt much better about the entire evening. 

Behind the camera, James yelped out high-pitched but ultimately useless advice such as  _ Dundy, don’t let her eat the butter! Cleo, no! Fuck! I’ve got a meeting with my advisor tomorrow; I can’t go if I’m scratched to ribbons! _ and screamed like a diva from a creature feature.

“J-Jesus fucking Christ,” gasped Francis from their nest of blankets on the floor. “W-why the hell did you two think you could keep a cheetah on a  _ houseboat? _ ”

From his corner of the sofa, where Meera was painting his nails an electric purple, Dundy insisted, “Well, it made sense at the time!” As he had won the award for worst video, the plastic children’s crown James had brought along was perched crookedly on his head, and threatened to fall off at any second. “James, tell your boyfriend, right? Tell him the argument you used to convince me. You made a blasted Powerpoint!”

“Don’t bother.” Francis pretended not to care, but he placed a warm hand on James’s knee with a familiar gleam in his eye. His thumb rubbed back and forth across James’s flannel pajamas. “James knows I can’t stand his slideshows.”

James leaned into the touch, and pulled the blanket closer around their shoulders. “But I am very adorable when I present them.”

“Yeah,” sighed Francis, very dramatically, and squeezed James’s knee again. He wound his other arm around James’s back. “Lucky for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it! 
> 
> Here ends the Christmas fic, unless I get bored and decide to throw in an epilogue....hope y'all enjoyed.


End file.
